


Dust to Dust

by tikistitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dean is a cop, Golems, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Russian Mythology, Sam is a rebel, at least to start out with, cas is kind of a nerd, Русалка | нимфа | nimfa | Rusalka (Slavic Mythology & Folklore)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 03:48:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2413844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/pseuds/tikistitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fantasy AU.  Dean Winchester is an officer in the Tajemny Corps, the supernatural police force in a city now set alight by mysterious citizen uprisings.  When Dean and his vampire partner are investigating a series of gruesome murders – killings the corrupt angelic oligarchy that runs the city is desperate to cover up – he crosses paths with the demon king Crowley’s newest protégé, the angel Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2014 Dean Cas Big Bang.
> 
> To keep things simple, I've just gone with black eyes for all the demons, including Crowley. 
> 
> And since I've already been asked about the rating: this fic is 90% PG-13, the worst thing being swears (which is how I usually write). There is one chapter with a more explicit scene, since I guess I got a little over-enthusiastic (and after all, it was written for the DCBB). 
> 
> My grateful thanks to my tireless beta, Z (from whom I managed to steal a couple of great jokes). And special thanks to my artist, amyeyl! Here's the [art masterpost](http://amyeyl.livejournal.com/21223.html) if you want another look at the pretty pictures!!

The creature was old. Very old.

But the power than had summoned it: that was older still.

It strode around the grounds. _Its grounds._ Its sacred earth. Strange that it would move around on legs. Strange that it had taken a form like them.

The creature sensed something. Something was not right with its homeland. 

Yes! It caught the scent, delivered by the breeze. One of the meat-things. It was there, squatting on the land, bringing its filth and desecration. 

The land must be protected.

The creature quickened its pace. It could not run, not as such, but its strides were long and purposeful, and it did not tire. It would never tire.

Yes, there it was now: the meat-thing. The creature could not see, not with blind holes for eyes, but it knew. Always, it knew. 

The meat-thing was sprawled on the ground now, spasming in a regular cycle, pulling oxygen from the air and huffing out carbon dioxide. It changed everything it encountered. That's what they did, the meat-things. They had no choice. They were not eternal, not of the earth. Earth and power.

The creature approached the meat-thing, drawing ever nearer. 

The meat-thing shifted, shook off its frail coverings. And then it emitted a sound: a horrible sound. 

It moved, appendages flailing. Was it trying to flee? 

It did not matter. The creature was upon the frail figure now, ripping it asunder, limb from limb. Now life was turned to guts and blood. Soon, the rain would wash it down, and the meat-thing would become one with the land again. 

As was right.


	2. Chapter 2

An entire city, wrapped in plastic.

The demon glared up and down the wide boulevard, still half in shadows in the slanted sun of early dawn. Many of the ornate facades were now obscured, swaddled in tarps, a part of the construction boom that was currently sweeping the city. Far out in the countryside, the humans drilled into the ground for a sticky black substance, which they ripped from the earth and traded for gold. The angels who ruled the city plundered most of the gold, but this didn't prevent a little of the wealth from seeping back into the city. Earth to oil, oil to plastic, plastic sheeting covering the bricks.

“Renewal,” they called it. The demon remembered back when the street was new. It would never be new again.

Pushing his sunglasses down his nose, he checked his wristwatch: it was a lovely thing, a tiny orrery with delicate gears that tracked the motions of the solar system. He wondered if there was time to stop for coffee. There was a good place near here, an old-style cafe with quiet help and strong brew. But alas, his meeting would begin in mere ticks.

Sighing, he rang the bell beside the thick wooden door. The nameplate read simply, _Andělé_. He was buzzed in, and slowly mounted the steps to the reception, leaning heavily on his silver-tipped cane. The unsmiling receptionist, wearing a prim, high-necked blouse, immediately ushered him to a dimly lit, anonymous meeting room. One glance upwards told him all he needed to know: popcorn ceiling. How typical of the angels, doing whatever was cheap and anonymous. He pulled himself a Styrofoam cup full of bitter, lukewarm coffee from the plastic spigot of the stainless steel thermos and sat down on one of the uncomfortable chairs that lined the wall.

He didn't bother to remove the sunglasses.

The angels filed in, taking seats around the pressed fiberboard conference table. They looked human enough, but even a non-demon, who couldn't smell them as the demon did, could spot them a mile off. They all moved stiffly, and were dressed in identical suits, even the women. As for the suits, they were nice enough, but nowhere near the best. And the demon knew the best. He knew what was good, and what was not.

“Mr. Crowley,” came Zachariah's annoying nasal voice, as the angel bustled his large frame into the seat at the head of the table. “So good of you to join us this morning.”

“No good in it,” said Crowley, tossing his coffee cup into the waste bin. “I came because you called. We'd like to keep a courteous relationship with our customers.”

This got a glower from Zachariah, as well as several of his brethren, which was probably just what Crowley was aiming for. He was a demon, after all. He peered over his dark eyeglasses, and for just the barest instant - only a fraction of a second - Crowley’s eyes flashed a shiny obsidian: reflective, like some kind of ancient insect. It’s possible that any humans in the room may have missed the transition. There were no humans in the room. The angels collectively breathed in, invisible feathers ruffling. It was never entirely clear who was more powerful these days, angels or demons, nor who was possessed of more magic, but as far as most of the parties in the room were concerned, they would not like to find out.

“Why don't we get to the first action item?” hummed Zachariah. There was a slight breeze in the room, as if from the flapping of agitated wings. “I'm certain Mr. Crowley has business _elsewhere._ Rachel?”

Rachel was a smooth blonde with hair neatly tucked into a clasp at the nape of her neck. Like a Hitchcock blonde, Crowley thought, only minus the underlying sex appeal. Not that he went for blondes. Or angels, for that matter.

Crowley cocked an eyebrow as she began to drone on, but remained silent. It was the usual angel drivel, trying to speak a lot and say nothing. 

And then the door opened, and one more angel shambled in. He looked like he'd just crawled out of bed: unshaven, hair all askew, and still wearing a rumpled trench coat. As there were no more seats at the table, he found himself a chair against the wall, on the side opposite Crowley. He set down his briefcase in the chair next to him, but it flopped over, so he had to straighten it. But then it flopped over again. Partially because Crowley wagged a finger and made it fall over. 

He was wearing eyeglasses. Crowley had never seen an angel wear eyeglasses before. They kept sliding down his nose when he bent over to straighten his briefcase. It was all rather diverting.

“Castiel!”

The rumpled angel looked up, and so did Crowley. Castiel shot a glance at Rachel, just as his glasses slipped down his nose again: his eyes were blue as gemstones, rimmed with sadness.

Crowley's blackened heart melted, although just a little.

“Yes, Rachel?” said Castiel. The voice was not something Crowley had expected. It came from somewhere deep inside him, as if he had some kind of hidden strength.

“Do you have a Powerpoint for us?”

The fantastic eyes narrowed to slits of puzzlement. “A power-point?” he asked. He seemed honestly puzzled. Crowley was utterly delighted.

“Did you prepare a slide presentation for us regarding your findings about the … _incidents_?” Zachariah hedged. 

“My findings?” asked Castiel. Crowley saw Zachariah's neck turn red.

“It was your action item, Castiel,” scolded Rachel.

“Unfortunately, I have not been allowed to travel to the Zizkov district,” said Castiel. “So I have no findings.”

“Why would you need to travel to the Zizkov district?” asked Rachel.

“Because that's where the murders took place.”

The angels around the table, who were usually placid sonsabitches, grew flustered, and a couple of them actually muttered something. “ _Incidents_ , Castiel,” Rachel told him through gritted teeth, flicking her eyes over towards where Crowley sat. “We refer to them as incidents.”

“Two men, torn limb from limb Rachel.” Castiel nudged up the eyeglasses. His eyes, though bleary, were piercing.

“There is no need to jump to conclusions,” said Zachariah in a mock chuckle.

“Are you saying it was suicide?” said Castiel. The eyes now bored into his superior.

“You were supposed to sift through the findings and report, Castiel,” said Zachariah, this time a bit more sternly.

“Might I hear about the deaths, then?” asked Crowley. The stirring and muttering shifted to stillness and a dead silence. “Zizkov is part of my territory.” It was actually supposed to be neutral territory, since several local factions claimed it. The angels had no damned business developing it, but you had to pick your battles, and what with the oil money flooding in, everything was fair game for new construction.

Castiel was now opening the errant briefcase and shuffling through the mess of papers within. “Two reported that we know about,” he said. “However, I have found-”

“Castiel!” barked Zachariah. 

Several of the angels around the table flinched with surprise, but Castiel, surprisingly, only glanced up at his senior angel, tilting his head, his glasses sagging down his nose yet again. “Yes?”

“Kindly stick to the incidents in question.”

To Crowley's utter delight, Castiel stared at Zachariah for longer than was comfortable, Zachariah spending the time harrumphing, and finally ended up breaking eye contact. And then Castiel fished a piece of paper out of his briefcase, and began reading, choosing his words with obvious care. “There have been two … _deaths_ reported to local authorities within the past month onsite of our company's Zizkov development...”

“What authorities?” asked Crowley.

“The Ministry of the Uncanny,” answered Castiel, before Zachariah and Rachel could shush him. 

“Ah, the Tajemny Corps,” said Crowley. He didn't need to say anything more. If the murders (because that's what they undoubtedly were) had been reported to the authorities in charge of supernatural incidents, then there was more to these “incidents” than the angels were letting slip.

Castiel was speaking again. “The _incidents_ were two weeks apart. The victims, according to available reports, were thought to be homeless men.”

“Wolves,” said Zachariah. 

“I'm sorry?” said Castiel.

“Or possibly bears. Yes, possibly bear attacks.”

Castiel actually flicked his eyes at Crowley, who sat impassive behind his sunglasses. 

“So what is being done about these terrible wild animal maulings?” Zachariah asked Rachel.

Rachel took a beat, but to her credit, took up the story. “Yes. We plan to set up traps, and perhaps....”

“Hunters?” prompted Zachariah.

“Yes,” said Rachel, more confidence in her voice now. “We will set up baited traps, and we will contract with some local hunters to flush out the predator, or predators. Now, to the next item on our agenda....”

“Thank you, Mr. Crowley,” said Zachariah. “I am certain you have many other matters to attend to today.” Castiel was still sitting with his briefcase still open, a very puzzled look on his face.

Crowley, who knew when he was being dismissed, stood up and, leaning heavily on his cane, found his way out, giving a last, curt nod to Zachariah. And then he trod down the steps from the suite, until he was out on the street, walking down the plastic-sheeted boulevard, many things now preying upon his mind.

 

The flat was up six flights of stairs. There was an elevator, but as it was chronically broken, he usually did not bother.

Your reward upon making it up all 115 steps was a large apartment that dominated the top floor, complete with a balcony, and a commanding view of the city. 

It had been a while since he had opened the double doors that led out onto the terrace. It had been a while since he had done much of anything, to be honest.

Castiel shrugged off his rumpled overcoat and hung it up on a hook. He kicked off his shoes, leaving them where they settled on the bare floor, and then trudged over to the couch. He sat down on the threadbare cushions, sighed deeply, and put his head in his hands.

And there he stayed, for a very long while. 

Something creaked in the kitchen. Something that shouldn't have creaked. 

His short, sharp angel sword was sitting on the scarred coffee table. He snatched it up and, moving quickly and silently as a stalking cat, crept towards the dark kitchen. Castiel pressed himself against the wall just outside the threshold. Yes, there was definitely movement within. Holding his breath, he chanced a look.

It was not what he expected.

In one motion, he was in the doorway, sword poised. 

The demon stood in the middle of his kitchen, opening cupboards and peeking into drawers and clucking his tongue.

“Mr. Crowley?” said Castiel, who was perhaps not as wary as he should have been. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

The demon didn't look at him. He still had his cane, the one he had been leaning on this morning, but it was propped up against the kitchen table. Oddly enough, he seemed a lot more light on his feet just now. “It's been a while,” Crowley said, “but I seem to remember that you angels need to eat, just the same as the rest of us.”

Castiel let his sword arm drop. “What?”

The demon turned to face him, staring over his dark glasses. “There's not a scrap of food in this place. And you've lost a good ten to twenty pounds in the last month or so.”

“How … do you know that?” asked Castiel.

“It doesn't take demon magic,” sniffed Crowley. “You don't seem the type to get your suits measured, but you've definitely using a tighter notch on your belt.”

Castiel glanced down at his pants. “I'm a failure,” he whispered.

“So you're starving yourself?” 

Castiel looked up again, now angry. “It doesn't matter. How the hell did you get in here? I'm warded.”

“Oh, please,” said Crowley. “With those bits of spells your brother bureaucrats gave you?” He snorted. “Not exactly a hindrance for the likes of me.”

“What are you, then?” Not that Castiel expected a straight answer. 

Crowley was staring over the dark glasses now, his glance mocking. “What did they tell you?”

“Something about crossroads deals,” Castiel admitted. “They were vague. They don't actually tell me very much.”

Crowley smiled a satisfied cat smile. He snapped his fingers, and he was suddenly wearing a little crown. “King of the crossroads, actually,” he announced, giving a little bow.

“And they let you stay here?” asked Castiel. “In their city?”

“They haven't much choice, have they?” said Crowley, who snapped his fingers once again to remove the crown. He was now standing with his cane in his hand. “But let's discuss a deal, shall we? I'd like some information about those _murders_ in Zizkov.” He was careful to enunciate the word correctly. Murder. “And since you appear to be the only angel in this town who's not a complete wanker, I'd like to discuss it with you.”

“I'm certain you would,” said Castiel. He thought for a moment. “Since this is a deal, what am I getting out of it?”

“Ah, so you are a bright boy! Well, you'll get a good meal out of it, for one. Put some meat on those holy bones. And pleasant conversation, with your truly.”

“Information,” said Castiel.

“Well, I'll admit I don't have any to give at present. So what say we make this deal a bit open-ended? If we're having a good dinner at a local establishment, and after a few glasses of wine the conversation should happen to drift to what you've discovered in your recent investigations, say that we keep our respective social calendars open for future exchanges of pleasantries?”

Castiel stared for a while. He was good at that. Crowley waited patiently. “If you betray me,” Castiel finally said, “I will cut out your heart with my sword.”

“You certainly have a way with people, don't you?” remarked Crowley. “Shall we go?” After a few more moments of due consideration, Castiel turned his back to the demon, and got his coat and shoes. “There are a lot of stairs,” he warned, glancing at Crowley’s cane as he closed his apartment door and secured the warding, little as it did.

“Why take the stairs, when you can take the lift?” asked Crowley, pointing his cane at the elevator, which, for the first time in weeks, creaked open. He and Castiel entered, and then the descended, drifting down six flights. “Seventh floor,” said Crowley.

“The sixth floor,” Castiel corrected.

“In America, they count the ground floor as the first.”

“So you've been to America?” Castiel asked as the door popped open on the ground floor, or first floor, or whatever the hell it was. The city was dark. Crowley, who had been leaning heavily on his cane that very morning, now walked tapping it lightly on the ground. Castiel followed his lead.

“Yes. When I was younger. And what of you? I haven't seen you around here before.” The city was dark, and they walked alongside the meandering river that cut it in two. Snow clung to the ground in a few places, but most of the ice had melted, making the sidewalks passable on this winter day.

“I was recently transferred,” growled Castiel. He had his hands in his pockets and was staring out across the river, his thoughts miles away. His failure had put him here: his unworthiness had sent him to this city. 

“Here it is,” said Crowley, indicating a dimly lit stairway that descended to a bar in the basement of one of the riverside buildings. Even with his acute angel senses, Castiel would have walked right by if Crowley hadn't stopped. It probably had some warding on it. This city was beginning to get a certain reputation with tourists, and some establishments didn't like tending to out of town customers. He followed the demon downstairs. It was warm and quiet and, to his surprise, smelled of honest fare. None of the patrons looked up, and the host, unbidden, led Crowley and Castiel to a U-shaped booth in a darkened back room. They were the only ones dining there. They slid into opposite sides of the booth, like two teenagers on first date. “We'll have a bottle,” Crowley told the waiter, who was also silent. “And he'll have some of your stew.” 

“You eat and drink,” said Castiel when the waiter departed. He was honestly curious: he hadn't had much interaction with demons.

“When I'm in the mood for it, yes,” said Crowley. “I have a weakness for Scotch whiskey,” he confided. “Difficult to get it in this place. One of my very few complaints about living here, other than the presence of your lot.”

The waiter presented a bottle to Crowley, who nodded. A portion was swiftly and efficiently decanted into two glasses. Crowley raised his in a silent toast, so Castiel, to be polite as much as anything else, held up his own glass. Some of his brethren were connoisseurs: Zachariah, for example, was reputed to have an extensive wine cellar. Castiel wasn't certain why one would amass a library of a liquid meant to be consumed for pleasure. But it was just one of many things he failed to understand about angels, despite being one himself.

Crowley's wine tasted faintly of licorice. It was warm going down. It had been a while since he'd felt truly warm.

“So,” said Crowley, “I don't mean to pry, but about the incidents....”

“There have been two murders,” said Castiel, who wasn't in the mood for bureaucratic nonsense right now, “that I can determine. And perhaps as many as half a dozen more. I have had no access to the site, nor the actual police reports. My information is therefore based on the public records, witness accounts that I have been able to glean, and some published stories.”

Crowley sat back, making himself comfortable. “I know they weren't bears: there hasn't been a bear in these mountains for over a century. But could it be wolves?”

“No,” said Castiel. The waiter placed a bowl of a thick stew at his place, along with a plate of freshly baked bread. He carefully dipped a spoon into the stew, after repeating a small enchantment that would counter poisons. It was spicy and delicious. 

Crowley watched him patiently for a time. “Details?” he finally asked.

“The victims had been eviscerated, but there was no evidence that they had been eaten,” said Castiel.

“All the puzzle pieces were there then?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm, wouldn't like to be the poor sod at the coroner's who had to glue them back together.”

Ignoring the conversation topic, Castiel ate the stew. He tore off a slice of bread and dabbed it in the bowl. His appetite, which had faded since he'd moved to the lonely apartment on the sixth floor, seemed to bloom back within him. “I'm certain somehow that this city's coroner's office is used to such things.”

“So how did it get tossed to the Tajemny?”

“I can't be certain with the information I have. However, I have an educated guess.”

Crowley's eyes were visible over the dark glasses. When they weren't blacked over, they were a kind of light hazel. “I would be ever so interested in your educated guess.”

Castiel actually smiled. Not a full one, just a twitch of the end of his mouth. “As you know, supernatural activity leaves certain traces.”

“EMF meters aren't permissible in court here, as _you_ know.”

Crowley and Castiel exchanged a knowing glance. A cop who wasn't quite doing things by the book.

“Speaking of our local constabulary,” said Crowley.

“Crowley,” said the tall man who had just ambled up to the booth. Castiel had been so caught up in eating his stew he literally hadn't heard him come up. The man wore a rakish grin. He wasn't wearing any kind of uniform, though Castiel noticed a bulge in his jacket where he was probably packing a weapon.

“Out harassing law-abiding citizens again, Officer Winchester?” asked Crowley.

“An angel and a demon walk into a bar. Sounds like the start of a bad joke,” said the cop.

“I am out dining with a young acquaintance,” said Crowley. “Nothing more.”

“Oh, then you wouldn't mind my joining you?”

Crowley heaved a dramatic sigh. “Aren't you on duty?” For just a moment, Castiel saw the eyes behind the dark glasses darken dangerously. But then the demon scooted over further into the booth.

“I'm always on duty,” said Officer Winchester, who abruptly scooted into the booth right next to Castiel. 

Flustered, the angel glanced at the cop, peering over his eyeglasses. They were now nearly nose to nose, Officer Winchester staring curiously at him with playful light green eyes, small smile twitching at the edge of his mouth. “You need to slide over, Hot Wings, unless you wanna sit on my lap,” the cop offered.

Blushing, Castiel slid around and grabbed his place setting, though not before the cop helped himself to a piece of bread. 

“The murders in Zizkov,” Castiel blurted. 

“Oh,” said the cop, grabbing Castiel's knife to spread his bread with butter. “I thought you angel types were calling them 'accidental deaths.'”

“The angel types are calling them unfortunate circumstances, if they're acknowledging them at all,” groused Crowley. “But it seems we have a dissident in the ranks.”

“Since when do you concern yourself with angel infighting, Crowley?” Dean volleyed back.

“Since it concerns occurrences on my territory. Supernatural occurrences,” the demon told him flatly. “I've been courteously nudged out, but there's nothing to prevent me dining with a young friend.”

Castiel had turned his attention back to his stew, but did glance up at Crowley. Were they friends now? 

Dean signaled the waiter, gesturing at Castiel's wine glass. Castiel had begun to wonder if any of the cafe's staff were gifted with the power of speech. When the man came back with a glass, Crowley slid out of the booth. “If you'll excuse me for a moment, I must speak to the management.”

Dean poured himself a glass of wine. “So I take it you are now off duty, Officer?” said Castiel.

“Dean is fine. For you I mean.” Dean took a sip and nodded. “Not a wine person, but this is OK.”

“I'm not a wine person either … Dean.”

“Like beer?” asked Dean, arching an eyebrow.

“I don't generally drink,” Castiel confessed. “And I am Castiel.”

“Castiel,” said Dean, trying out the name at the same time he was shoving buttered bread into his mouth. “I thought I knew most of the angels in my district. Haven't seen you around here before.”

“I'm new to the area,” said Castiel, who didn't elaborate. He wondered when Crowley would come back. The atmosphere seemed odd now, like an awkward first date. 

“I'm on the case, you know,” Dean offered, helping himself to more bread. “Zizkov.”

Castiel's spoon stopped, halfway to his mouth. “You're Tajemny?” Dean nodded, his lip in a smug little curl. “You utilize some rather unorthodox methods, Dean,” said Castiel.

The smile faded, but only a little. “You gotta do what you gotta do,” said Dean. “You're really here to discuss Zizkov?”

“Yes.”

Dean set the bread down on a napkin for a moment. The casual manner faded somewhat, and he appeared thoughtful. “Don't know if your good friend Crowley has told you this-”

“We just met. Actually.”

Dean smiled, and this one was genuine. Castiel couldn't help notice that his face was dappled with a light sprinkling of freckles. It was like he'd brought a tiny ray of sunshine into the dark pub. “Crowley and I, we sometimes offer each other information.”

Castiel leaned forward slightly. “I need access to the official police reports. As well as the crime scenes.”

“Hey, you cut to the chase, don’t you?”

“Will you help me, Dean?” They locked eyes for a long moment.

“So, what did I miss?” asked Crowley, who had slithered back from wherever he had popped off to. Both Castiel and Dean glanced over at him, Castiel's cheeks flushing slightly.

Castiel pushed his bowl away. “This was very good stew. What do I owe them?”

“It's been taken care of,” said Crowley, waving a hand.

“You're not gonna require a kiss to seal the deal?” asked Dean.

“No. Did you?” purred Crowley.

“Uh, I should be going,” said Castiel.

“I'll walk you,” said Dean, who was looking straight at Crowley. 

Crowley glared, but nodded. “We'll do this again some time. Soon,” he told Castiel, steepling his fingers.

Castiel took his coat, and walked outside accompanied by Officer Dean Winchester. They reversed the route he had taken earlier with Crowley, walking by the water. Neither spoke: both men seemed to be deep in thought.

They stopped in front of Castiel's apartment building. Castiel thought of the 115 steps, and the cold, empty apartment up above. The elevator would still be broken: he wouldn't be using any of Crowley's demon magic to buy himself a lift.

“You might wanna be careful with Crowley-” Dean started.

“Forty-eight hours,” Castiel told him.

Dean paused. He had obviously meant to continue with his thought, but instead he said, “Uh, excuse me?”

“The next incident. If I'm correct, it will occur approximately forty-eight hours from now.”

Dean mulled it over, and then nodded. “All right, we'll be on the lookout. Thanks, Cas. And I'll try to see about getting you access to the reports.”

“Thank you, Dean.” And with that, Castiel turned and walked up the steps to his building. He was about halfway to his apartment, between the third and fourth floors, when he realized that Officer Dean Winchester of the Tajemny Corps had just given him a new nickname.

 

Fifty-two hours later, an unmarked car pulled in front of the apartment building. “Now, you just hold on a minute,” said Benny, tugging on Dean's lapels. “We gotta make sure you're all prettied up to meet your angel.”

“Benny, fuck off,” laughed Dean, slapping away the big man's hands. “I'll be back.” He hopped out of the car and ran up to the entrance, but was surprised to see Castiel appear in the ornate front doorway.

“My elevator is out of service,” Castiel explained. “I didn't wish to make you climb upstairs.”

“So you stood out here in the cold?” asked Dean.

“My apartment is not much warmer,” Castiel told him as they walked towards the car. “But it doesn't matter.”

“Don't want you getting pneumonia,” said Dean as he opened the car's back door.

“Hey, you forgot to bring him flowers 'n candy,” laughed Benny.

Dean sighed as he slid into the driver's seat. “This is my partner, Officer Lafitte. Benny. He's mostly an asshole. Ignore him.”

“ _Mostly_ an asshole?” mused Benny, rubbing his scraggly beard. “Personally, I think I'm pretty damned cute and cuddly.”

Dean guided the sleek, black car through the narrow streets. It was late at night or early in the morning, depending on how you wanted to look at it, so there was little traffic. He grabbed the Styrofoam coffee cup sitting in the holder beside him and took a gulp of the stale, bitter coffee. It had been a long night.

“I take it from your message that there has been another incident,” Castiel growled from the back seat. The night air had only made his raspy voice deeper.

“You called it, Feathers,” said Benny.

“ _Castiel_ ,” the angel supplied crisply. “My proper name is Castiel.”

“My Cover Is God,” said Benny, and Castiel gave him a surprised look.

“We’ve collected the body,” Dean told Cas.

“What was left of it,” Benny laughed. “Hope you ain’t squeamish, angel.”

“I assure you, I’m not, _vampire_ ,” countered Castiel.

“Whoa!” said Dean. “Hey, you two. It’s too early for this.”

But Benny didn’t seem offended in the least. He turned around, putting a thick arm along the bench seat in the big car. He put a thumb on the brim of his cap, tipping it up. “I haven’t been biting any necks, at least not in the last five minutes. What gave me away?”

“You are cold. And you smell of blood,” Castiel offered.

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Told you to quit snacking on the job,” he muttered.

“What kinda blood? If I may inquire?” asked Benny. “Give you a hint: ain’t human.”

Castiel leaned forward and sniffed. “Cas, you really gotta smell my partner like that?” asked Dean.

Castiel scowled with intense concentration. “I would say porcine. An unfamiliar breed. Turopolje, perhaps?”

“Damn!” said Benny, sitting back with a whistle. “This kid’s gonna go places. You want him to come along, I approve.”

“I was not awaiting your approval, vampire,” said Castiel.

“Though he could work on the social interaction aspect,” Benny mused. Benny could yank your chain like a pro: Dean had figured this out long ago. 

“Can we keep on topic?” sighed Dean, taking another slurp of coffee as he felt his head pound. He turned a corner, and as the headlights flashed along the side of the street, glimpsed the remnants of last night's demonstration. None of the official news agencies had covered it, of course, because officially everyone in the city was perfectly content with their blissful lives under rule of the angelic oligarchy. But here and there you'd see a board covering a broken shop window, a line of graffiti that hadn't been sand blasted away yet, placards discarded when someone dropped them to run. Dean thanked heaven the Tajemny wasn't routinely involved in policing the gatherings, not the least because he didn't like to think about who might be among the crowds, but it seemed to him these non-existent protests were becoming both larger and more frequent. 

They turned another corner, and the discarded remnants were swallowed by the darkness in the rear view mirror. “Cas, we’re taking you to the site. I understand you haven’t been out there yet?”

“No, Dean, I have not been granted access.”

Dean and Benny exchanged a glance. “OK. You’ve still not really been granted access, all right? This is strictly … unofficial.”

Castiel leaned forward once again, resting his arms on the back of the front seat. He looked thoughtful. “I understand,” he said at last, pushing his glasses back up on his nose. Dean nodded grimly, hoping this wasn’t all some terrible mistake. Working for the Tajemny Corps had been a lifelong dream for him, but it had thrown him for a loop when he ended up partnered with a vampire. Lord knows what his father would have had to say about it all. It had taken him many months to get over his mistrust of Benny, but when they’d finally clicked, they had turned into one of the more successful pairs in the precinct, clearing a record number of unusual and unnatural cases that were the Tajemny’s stock in trade.

However, they had run into a brick wall on this Zizkov thing. And now here he was dragging an angel (and probably a demon, since Crowley had somehow gotten mixed up in it) into the investigation. 

They had reached the outskirts of the city, and were now traveling along a dark, lonely road that wound up the hills that abutted the town. They pulled up to an area surrounded by a wire mesh fence, though there were several visible holes in the fence. Benny got out to open a gate, and a little later Dean pulled the car into the construction zone. Zizkov was an historic area, primarily because it housed an older cemetery, but somehow the Angel backers had either greased enough palms or bullied enough people to level it for their shopping mall, or whatever the hell they thought they were building. 

Dean stopped the car, and, grabbing flashlights, they got out and approached the construction site, ducking under the yellow police tape. The body, or what was left of it, had already been carted off, but the scene hadn’t otherwise been cleaned up, and it was still pretty gruesome. Dean muttered a silent prayer that Cas wouldn’t throw up all over the place when he got a look: the guy did look a little frail, especially for an angel. But instead, Castiel seemed deadly serious as Benny pointed out, with a bit of relish, where the body parts had been found. 

“This person was a trespasser, I assume?” asked Castiel. “We have not yet resumed construction work.”

“Yeah,” Dean confessed. “We think it was a transient. We’ve been trying to get the word out among the homeless populations to keep away from this place, especially at night, but I guess some people didn’t get the message.”

The angel concentrated deeply, and at last crouched down by a partially finished foundation, squinting at something on the wall. He waved, and Dean approached him. “Do you have gloves?” he asked.

Benny pulled a latex glove from his pocket, and Cas put it on as Dean pointed his flashlight beam towards the wall. Cas rubbed his finger in some mud that had splashed along the low wall. “This is not mud from this location.”

“They brought in their own mud?” asked Dean, who squatted down next to Cas.

Benny looked thoughtful. “What are you sayin', angel?”

Cas was occupying himself rubbing the reddish clay between his thumb and fingers. “This man was not killed by wild animals. Nor by another man, at least not directly.”

“What do you think killed him?” asked Dean.

Cas stood, snapping off the glove. “I believe this to be the work of a golem.”

“Damn,” whispered Benny. 

“Wait, that clay Frankenstein thing? A golem?” said Dean. He had heard of the monsters before, of course. They were notorious here: the stuff of legend. But that was a century ago. “Now?”

“There's supposedly one interred hereabouts, if I remember correctly,” said Benny, rubbing his beard and looking around. “They were supposed to have disinterred and relocated all the bodies before they started on the diggin’.”

“Would that include excavating a big mud monster?” asked Dean.

“Yeah, but to bring it back to life: it ain’t just a matter of openin’ the vault. You gotta have something to activate it.”

“Or someone,” said Dean.

Castiel had started scanning the area, concern washing over his features. “There is something else here.”

Benny immediately went on alert. “Someone's coming,” he said. He pointed the beam of his flashlight off in the distance, but the grounds appeared to be empty.

Although Dean didn’t have his companions’ supernatural senses, he felt a shiver go down his spine. “Cas, stay in back of us,” he ordered. “What do we got?” he asked Benny.

“Silver bullets,” advised Benny, drawing his weapon as they heard the howl. Dean had tangled with a lot of unearthly creatures these past few years, but he thought he’d never heard such a mournful sound. He reached in and pulled his revolver from the holster under his jacket, wishing he'd grabbed a shotgun from the car before they had wandered too far away. 

There was a growl, and then something was racing at Benny, all grey fur and yellow eyes and sharp teeth. Benny discharged his weapon once, twice. There was a flash of red, and then the beast retreated. “Wolf?” asked Dean, as Benny peered into the darkness, shaking his head. 

“I thought I wounded it, but it didn’t slow it down. Much.”

“Dean!” shouted Cas, and Dean whirled around just in time to get a shot off at yet another creature. It reeled, wounded, and then Benny got in another shot, though it wasn't clear if it hit. Once more, the thing retreated into the darkness.

And there were still more, dark shifting shapes out there, glowing eyes, moving in the half-light. “It’s a pack. Do we have enough ammo?” Dean asked.

“It’ll have to be enough, brother,” grunted Benny, who looked uncharacteristically nervous. Another shape hurtled nearer. Benny fired and missed, and then it was upon him.

“God dammit!” yelled Dean. He aimed, but couldn’t get a bead on the thing without hitting Benny. The vampire was giving it all he had, his fangs extended. “Cas, dammit, stay back!” Dean hollered, but Cas suddenly bolted to where Benny and the wolf were wrestling on the ground. A blade flashed, and Dean could have sworn he saw a spray of dark feathers, sweeping away from Castiel’s back. The creature roared and darted off.

“We got more company!” Dean called as he took aim once again. Cas hurriedly helped Benny to his feet. A shot rang out, and there was a growl. 

“Too damned many of them,” said Benny, who was scrambling to retrieve his gun. “I’m down to two bullets,” he reported.”

“Think I have one left,” Dean admitted.

Cas stepped forward, bloodstained blade in his hand. Somehow, holding the sword, he no longer looked like the frail guy Dean thought he knew. There was a kind of power to him. Dean could have sworn he saw the dark outline of wings arching from Cas’s back. “I will hold them off,” said Cas. “You two should get to cover.”

“No fucking way,” said Dean.

“I ain’t budging neither, Feathers,” said Benny. “I owe you one.”

Castiel glared at them, but did not retreat. Dean held his weapon, aiming wherever he saw movement.

And then there was a flurry of barking from somewhere behind them. “What now?” asked Dean. He looked down to see Castiel’s hand pressing down on his gun arm. 

“Hold your fire,” said Castiel.

“What the hell, Cas?”

“Exactly,” said the angel. 

The sound of barking resonated louder, and abruptly, the dark shapes, one by one, disappeared, vanishing back into the night.

“Hello, boys,” said Crowley, who had just appeared behind them.

“What just happened?” asked Dean, who still had his weapon ready. Benny was looking confused, and Castiel gestured with his sword towards Crowley, who was now reaching up one hand and patting what looked like empty space.

“Mine’s bigger,” said Crowley, satisfied smirk on the demon’s face.

“Crowley is accompanied by a hellhound,” said Castiel, his head listing to the side, his glasses slipping down as he gazed on the creature Dean could not see.

“It's more of a pet. Are you Daddy’s precious?” asked Crowley, speaking to what looked to Dean like empty air.

“Did you set those things on us, Crowley?” asked Dean, pointing towards where the wolf-creatures had emerged from the dark.

The demon eyed the men and snorted, as if the entire notion was beneath his contempt. “No. Otherwise I wouldn’t have rescued you. You owe me one, Officer Winchester. Castiel, it seems we have some catching up to do. My place, or yours?”

“Can you guarantee these two beings safe passage?” asked Castiel, gesturing at Dean and Benny.

“Hey, wait, Cas,” said Dean. “You can't go with this guy.”

Crowley nodded, his eyes glinting over his dark glasses, leaning lightly on his cane. “Yes, of course, I'll see to it they're safely tucked in their little beds. Now, shall we?”

Castiel turned to Dean. “Go directly home. Do not tarry here tonight. We need to discover more about this entity before we can confront it.”

“Cas, Crowley's a demon.”

“I am aware of that, Dean.”

“Then you know that demons are after one thing: making more demons.”

Cas stared at him for an uncomfortably long time. Dean worried that he'd said the wrong thing. Maybe angels couldn't be converted? Maybe he had insulted the guy? But then he saw the edge of Castiel's mouth flick into the barest, briefest of smiles. “I'll be on my guard.”

“Cas-”

But Castiel had already moved to accompany Crowley. Swinging his cane with a jaunty air, Crowley walked a few paces with Castiel, and then the both of them disappeared.

“Fuck,” said Dean. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Ain't that the truth, brother,” said Benny.


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley's residence surprised Castiel. 

Being an angel, he had been inside innumerable mansions, castles, manors and palaces. He hadn't much of an impression of most of them, as it was impossible to see anything behind all the chintz and filigree and gold leaf his brothers and sisters tended to stuff into their dwelling places. 

But here: the residence was huge, probably as big as Castiel's entire apartment building, and it was packed with curios and antique furniture, but it still managed somehow to seem understated. Castiel paused as they walked down the hall, past a curio cabinet crammed with knick knacks from all over the world, tribal masks and snow globes; past a book shelf with arcane texts and best sellers; past a tapestry he'd once seen pictured in a textbook (it was thought to be lost) and a Picasso that appeared to have been painted within the last four or five years. 

Crowley was leading him towards a room with a cluttered desk and many bookshelves. Probably a study, Castiel thought. Ignoring the seat behind the desk, Crowley sat down on one of a pair of leather couches in one corner, and indicated Castiel should do the same. The enormous hellhound, which had padded along with them, curled up at its master's feet. Crowley reached forward and grabbed a bottle that contained a smoky liquid. “I like it neat,” he explained, pouring the Scotch into two small glasses.

“Alcohol has little effect on me,” Castiel told him, though he figured it was probably common knowledge for the demon. He pushed his eyeglasses up his nose and sniffed at the liquor. He wasn't certain whether this was considered polite, but he had little experience drinking whiskey with demons.

“Maybe it doesn't usually, but I wouldn't be surprised if you feel it, in your current state.”

“What state?” rumbled Castiel, sipping his drink, glaring through heavy-lidded eyes at Crowley.

“Malnourished, borderline exhausted. How long's it been since you've had a full night's sleep?”

“We don't require as much as humans, nor probably as much as demons.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow. “Don't know that one?”

Castiel took another sip. Crowley, damn his hide, was correct. He didn't know a whole lot about demon physiology.

“You were recently transferred up here,” said Crowley.

“Why are we discussing information I already know?”

Crowley was speaking softly. “You were down there, the uprising was down there. _Naomi_ was down there.”

“How do you know about Naomi?” Castiel immediately regretted his words. The room. The white room. He stifled a shiver.

To Castiel's surprise, Crowley's face was serious. He actually glanced to the side, as if he didn't want to be overheard. “Here's some new information for you: Naomi has worked her special brand of magic on a certain number of acquaintances of mine. Some didn't survive the encounter. Some did. And a few … well, let us say, they were not transformed in the way management might have desired.”

He straightened, and then beckoned to someone in the doorway. Castiel turned: he hadn't sensed the newcomer, and this irked him. A silent servant brought in a tray of small pastries and left it beside them. Crowley waited until they had departed before he spoke again. “Take a demon's advice, darling,” he said, lifting a pastry. “Eat and sleep. That's your best revenge for now.”

“Who says I want revenge?” Crowley merely shrugged and nibbled at his pastry. Castiel reached over towards the tray, remembering the folk wisdom about eating food in the house of your enemy. He picked up some kind of stuffed roll anyway, as he found he was slightly hungry, and took a bite. Like the stew he'd eaten the other day, it was hearty and substantial, hardly the kind of delicate foodstuffs he'd expected a being like Crowley to dine on.

“Old family recipe,” said Crowley as Castiel hungrily finished the piece and grabbed another.

“Were you here the last time the golem walked?”

“What?” Crowley was either honestly surprised or one damned good actor. 

“A golem,” Castiel repeated, brushing pastry crumbs from his pants.

“You're daft, angel. Ratchet!” he called. The hellhound raised its head, and he popped a piece of pastry at it. 

Castiel tilted his head, getting a fix on Crowley's soul. It was difficult reading such a duplicitous creature, but he did appear to be expressing honest skepticism. “There was a distinctive clay in evidence. But this sort of creature does not fall within the realm of my experience.”

“I was here. But I kept my distance.”

“You speak as master to a hellhound.” Ratchet, as if he could sense the conversation, once again raised his head, tilting his ears at Castiel. Being an angel, Castiel could see him clearly: he was white, with red-tipped ears, and a surprisingly intelligent expression.

Crowley scratched the beast's ears. “True, but a dog's a dog. This kind of thing – if that's what it is, and I still think you're off your feathery rocker, mud or no mud – but this thing, it doesn't feel pain. It's pure rage. It's rage of the earth. Like a volcano got up and started knackering about.”

“If that is true, then the earth has moved.”

“Flirtation will get you everywhere.”

Castiel paused, pastry halfway in his mouth.

“Is that really a blush?” asked Crowley. “And would you care for more pastry?”

Castiel looked at the tray: it was empty. He just managed to cover his mouth before he burped. He pushed up his errant spectacles and got to his feet. “Uh, no. Thank you. I'm sorry, but I need to be elsewhere.”

 

“Only sacred ground,” said Benny.

“But you're all right in the Quarter?” Dean asked as they crossed through an ornate gate. 

The old Jewish Quarter was walled off, although of course no one but tourists paid any attention to the wall nowadays. The first Jews had arrived in about 1000 A.D., and the first pogrom happened not long afterwards, in 1090. It was one of the more benevolent rulers who had ordered the grey stone walls erected, as much to protect the residents inside from the rest of the townspeople as vice versa. Nowadays the area was a hodgepodge, with crazy slanted alleyways abutting modern office blocks. Dean glanced up at one apartment building which appeared to be leaning into the one beside it. Oddly enough, it looked to be newer construction, so perhaps the architect was simply having some fun. Nevertheless, the twisted girders made him feel unsettled. He put his head down and increased his pace. 

“I can roam most anywhere in this here quarter. I just can't go inside the synagogue, unless I wanna lose some weight.” Benny grinned and patted his midsection.

“I had always thought you guys didn't like being out in the sunshine,” said Dean. They had left the car parked outside the wall, as the twisting streets here were too narrow for anything but those strange little two-seater cars (which Dean abhorred) or motorbikes. 

“You were one naïve little fucker, before I took you under my wing,” said Benny just as they reached the steps of the old temple. 

“You should probably watch it,” Dean cautioned, glancing around nervously. “I mean, we are near a holy place.”

“Have you the two dumbfucks come to interrupt my damn kaddish?” demanded a dark-skinned man wearing a yarmulke who had just darted down the stone steps of the synagogue.

“Uh,” said Dean. “We’re here to see Rabbi Turner?”

“I’m Rabbi Turner. Why are you Tajemny dragging my ass into your business? And what are you supposed to be?” he added, giving Benny the evil eye.

“Vampire,” Benny supplied with a grin.

Turner snorted. “I don’t suppose you at least keep kosher?”

“No, Rabbi. Pig’s blood.”

Rabbi Turner rolled his eyes and began walking off. “Well, I don’t have a lot of time-“

“Golem,” said Dean.

“What?” Suddenly, Rabbi Turner was paying close attention to the men. “What did you say?”

“Go-lem,” said Dean, making sure his enunciation was precise. 

The Rabbi nodded in the direction of a nearby residence, and Dean and Benny followed him inside. There were books everywhere: not only on the bookshelves that lined every wall, but also piled up on end tables and stacked on the floor. 

“Find a seat where you can,” said the rabbi, who stepped nimbly through the books to crouch down next to an antique cabinet. Both Benny and Dean ended up piling books off of chairs and onto the coffee table and the floor in order to excavate room to sit down in this overstuffed library. Rabbi Turner brought out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label and poured himself a glass. He seated himself on top of the low cabinet. “I suppose you fine young men can’t share as you’re on duty,” he told them. “So, why are you trying to start a pogrom on me? As if I don’t have enough bullshit to deal with.”

“Rabbi,” said Dean, digging under his butt to find he was sitting on a Louis L’Amour paperback, “we’re not trying to start anything.”

“We’ve been conducting an investigation into the, uh, unfortunate incidents out in Zizkov,” Benny told him. “And we have evidence that the individual or individuals responsible may be supernatural in origin.”

“Oh? And the malakim are allowing you to call them 'unfortunate incidents?' And not, say, ‘happy fucking fun time?’”

Dean pulled a baggie out of his jacket. “We collected some samples of an earthen material from the crime scene.” He tossed the bag to the cabinet where the rabbi was sitting. “It’s a match for some historical samples of the entity in question.”

Rabbi Turner focused his glare at the two men. Dean found he wanted to sink down into the soft chair cushions. “And you two knuckleheads think we’ve unleashed a golem? Based on some red dirt? Because … what? I want the peasants to grab their torches and pitchforks because it’s been too long since you’ve all had a great time massacring my people?”

“I take it you don’t know anything, then?” said Benny. “We thought there was a connection, given the history of the grounds.”

“Look around here, young man,” said Rabbi Turner. “Do you see banners and flags? No. You see scholarship.”

“I found a cowboy novel,” Dean offered. He was rewarded with an especially withering glance. 

“You’re looking for a man who would unleash a monster on the city? Find someone who’s been spending his evening throwing rocks, instead of studying the sacred fucking scrolls!”

Some time later, as Dean and Benny were walking out of the Quarter, towards Dean's car, Dean commented, “Well, Rabbi Turner wasn’t exactly going for his cooperative citizen badge.

“I sorta like the old sonuvabitch,” laughed Benny.

“You think he’s telling the truth?” Dean asked.

“Well, he was talking sense. Maybe we need to start making inquiries among the Molotov cocktail set.”

 

“The quietest angel in the garrison.”

Castiel was gazing into his mug, watching the tea bag slowly stain the the hot water into a muddy brown. He was in the grey, windowless break room. There were two angels seated at one of the round tables. He recognized them: Inias and Muriel. It was Inias who had spoken. He nodded over a paper cup. 

“You can get decent coffee just down the block,” Inias volunteered. 

“It's tea,” said Castiel. After mulling it over for a bit, he added, “But thank you. I- I like coffee.”

He pushed his glasses back up his nose and tried to reason through the proper reaction here. Inias made a small fuss over removing a couple of magazines from the chair next to him. Castiel had been prepared to put his head down and hurry back to his office, but he decided to sit down at the table for a while.

Muriel pushed something his way. It was a plate of small, perfectly formed miniature Bundt cakes. “My grandmother made them,” she said, almost apologetically. Castiel recalled seeing occasional email messages from her about baked goods in the break room. He took one, if only to be polite. 

“It's delicious!” said Castiel. Muriel's faced edged into a small but triumphant smile. She nudged the plate and, before he thought about it too deeply, Castiel grabbed another tiny cake. 

“You have the pinwheels by your cubicle,” Castiel told Muriel. He also remembered, but did not mention, that the both of them had attended the meeting when Castiel tried to present his findings on Zizkov before Zachariah.

“Muriel specializes in weather-related phenomena,” said Inias.

Castiel nodded, and checked his watch. “I- I need to get back and work on some figures,” he said. The regret in his voice was genuine. He stood up.

“We usually go at 10,” said Inias. Cas tilted his head, so the angel added, “For coffee.”

Castiel's faced edged into a small smile. With an apologetic shrug, he returned to his office. Going for coffee with colleagues. It seems almost normal. 

His office was windowless. He didn’t much mind. Setting the lukewarm tea on his desk, he hunched over his computer and began to run some figures. Time, for a while, stood still.

Zachariah stormed in without bothering to knock. He never knocked.

Castiel didn’t bother to look up. “As I told you, I will have those figures for you later this afternoon.”

“We need to talk, Castiel,” said Zachariah.

“That will further delay the figures.”

“You were seen in the company of a … a demon!”

Castiel stopped working on his computer. He glanced up at his superior. “Who reported this?” 

“Does it matter?” asked Zachariah.

Castiel sat back, his eyes gone dark. “Yes. I would be grateful to know who has been spying on me.” 

“Castiel, do I need to remind you that demons are unclean?”

Castiel spun around in his chair. “We have one task, one above all: to protect His creations. If you insist on going forward with the Zizkov project, more will die. And they won’t be deaths that you can so easily cover up.”

Zachariah leaned his bulk forward, big hands gripping the arms of Castiel's chair. “And may I remind you, Naomi is still very much in business.”

Castiel gulped. 

_The white room._

Zachariah stood up, continuing to loom over Castiel. “I trust I will receive no further such reports. And get those figures to me.” And then he was gone.

Castiel sat for a while, just breathing. And then, somehow, he stood up. With a will of its own, his hand reached to grab his coat, and then his feet took him out of his office, down the corridor, past the receptionist, and down the steps towards the street. And then he walked home, past the many facades covered in construction tarp, towards his bitter cold, empty apartment up the 115 steps.

There was somebody in his apartment.

Castiel came out of his reverie. He realized there was an intruder before he had quite gotten to the sixth floor: his was the only apartment on his floor, so the noise was a giveaway. 

He drew his sword, pausing outside the door at the top of the stairs, near the corridor. He peered around the door frame: his own door was ajar, while someone was rather blatantly clattering around in his apartment. Moving as quietly as possible, hugging the wall, he crept out of the stairwell and towards his door. Just as he reached the threshold, a man holding a clipboard walked out of his door. “Hello there!” he hailed.

Castiel dropped his sword arm. “Hello?”

“You are Mr. Castiel Andělé?”

“I am.” He didn’t see any point in lying.

“Sign here, please.” 

Now terribly confused, Castiel tucked his sword under one arm and took the offered clipboard. He scanned down the list. “I didn't order any groceries,” he said.

“No, they're compliments of Mr. Crowley.”

“Mr.-? I can't possibly accept these. You'll have to take them back.”

Another deliveryman had come out of the apartment, hauling a hand truck. “Well, you can tell him yourself,” said the first deliveryman. “He's in there.”

Giving the men a curt nod, Castiel, now fuming mad, strode into his apartment to find Crowley lolling on his couch, sipping a drink and delicately plucking at candies. “Crowley,” growled Castiel.

“You're welcome,” said Crowley. “And now I know you'll have a stock of my favorite chocolate when I come visiting.”

Were the delivery men demons too? This was entirely too much for one day. “You shouldn't have been able to get in here! I've completely re-done the warding.”

“Yes, and done a much better job of it,” said Crowley. “I do feel a bit itchy. A bit.”

Castiel sighed and sat down opposite of the demon. “I was just warned about you.”

“And did you tell that fat sod, Zachariah, to stick it? What could he do, to someone like you?”

Cas rounded on him. “You know damned well what he could do.”

Crowley stared over his dark eyeglasses. Just for a moment, his eyes went black. “Didn't work the first time. You know the definition of madness, don't you?”

“Why are you here, Crowley?”

Crowley popped another chocolate into his mouth and arched an eyebrow. “I've done a little digging into your mad idea. Turns out, there's a family in town that's been rumored to keep a pet. A very unusual pet. Since you have the afternoon off, maybe you could pay them a visit?”

 

Dean walked up familiar narrow staircase to the fifth floor: this was another structure that had not been caught up in the city's wave of gentrification. It was located on a peaceful, shady lane not too far from the university. In the neighborhood there were many crowded cafes with students out loudly debating or hunched over textbooks and laptops. On this street, at least, you might almost pretend that you had taken a step into the romantic recent past. Almost being the key word, as Dean dodged around the colorful banner that had come half unpinned from the wall and was flapping in the breeze. He pulled at an edge to read the hand-painted slogan, shaking his head.

Dean's knock was answered by a pretty blonde wearing surgical scrubs. She narrowed her eyes and spoke his name suspiciously.

“Hey, Jess,” said Dean, positioning his face into his most innocent smile. When her expression failed to defrost, he added, “What's up, Doc?” miming either a cigar or a carrot.

“Not a doctor yet,” she grumbled. 

“Who is it, Jess?” came a voice from within the apartment.

Jessica crossed her arms, her body blocking entrance. “And the last time you had him out, I had to bail him out at 3 am,” she told Dean.

“Aw, Jess, I got the charges dropped.”

Jessica didn't move. “Jess! Is that Dean?” came the voice.

“Yeah!” she yelled back. “I gotta go, I'm on graveyard,” she added. She finally stepped out of the doorway, and, miming an “I'm watching you,” gesture, departed down the hallway.

“Bye!” came a cry from within. Dean invited himself in (as there had been no such salutation from Jessica) closing the door behind him just as a very tall man with hair that could stand an hour or so with a good barber appeared in the living room. “Love you babe!” he called, but then rolled his eyes as he spotted his dumb brother instead of his girlfriend.

“Love you too, sweetie-pie,” said Dean with a grin.

Sam's mouth twitched, but he folded his arms into an imitation of Jessica's cool greeting. “Jerk!” he called.

“Bitch!” returned Dean, and then Sam grinned wide and they folded into a big, back-slapping hug. “Hey, you gonna visit a barber any time this century?”

“Dude, you shoulda called!” said Sam, with a gratuitous whip of his auburn hair. “You wanna go out, grab a beer or something?”

“I only have a few minutes. Just wanted to … talk about something,” said Dean.

Sam scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, OK. Have a seat, I think there's a couple bottles left in the fridge.”

Dean nodded, and as Sam popped out of the room, Dean picked a pile of books off one of the threadbare couches and placed it on the bare floor, giving him a space to sit. He sat back and picked up the paperback on the top of the pile, thumbing through it. “Social politics,” he mused as his brother returned with the beers. He arched an eyebrow. “Funny, doesn't seem like law school curriculum.”

“Since when do you use words like _curriculum_? That's got about two more syllables than is allowed for cops.” Sam took a sip, keeping a watchful eye on Dean.

“I'm not gonna ask what my law student brother is doing in his free time, Sammy,” said Dean. “Partly because I _don't_ wanna know.”

“Is this some kind of official visit?” asked Sam. 

Dean tossed the book down on the scarred coffee table between them and leaned forward. “Whatever it is, you're keeping Jess far away from it? She's a beautiful girl, Sammy.”

Sam set down his beer and picked up the paperback. “Jess is an adult.”

“You remember Mom?”

Sam rested the book down on one long thigh. He was staring out the window. “No, I don't remember Mom. That's the point, Dean. We wanna leave the world a better place for our kids.”

Dean broke into a smile. “Your kids, huh? This is serious.”

Sam appeared distracted. He turned to face Dean, wistful smile on his face. “Yeah. Serious.”

“I'm glad for you.”

“You need something like that. In your life.”

Dean waved a hand. “I'm not the kind to settle down. You know that.” His thumbnails chipped away at the gold-embossed label on the beer bottle. “Besides, I've been working long hours lately. You know those murders I've been telling you about?”

Sam nodded. Though it definitely fell outside department guidelines, Dean was in the habit of telling his brother about his more intriguing investigations. Though the older Winchester often dismissed his own intellectual capabilities, he had an intense curiosity, and some cases just seemed to get under his skin and stay there, itching to get solved. The odd evisceration of the John Does out on the construction site was one such. It was a small miracle the Tajemny were even involved, as the angels who owned the property were pressuring for the entire issue to be forgotten. 

“We had another one,” said Dean. “This is completely hush-hush for now.”

“Aren't they all hush-hush?”

“I was just out there. Me and Benny.”

Sam wrinkled his nose. He didn't get along with the vampire. 

“And something tried to attack us.”

“Angels?” said Sam.

“We had an angel with us.”

“What?”

Dean waved a dismissive hand. “It's a long story.”

“I got time,” said Sam. “You got an angel helping you now?”

“And Crowley is mixed up in it.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Crowley's mixed up in everything. No surprise there.” He rubbed his chin, now caught up in the case. “Who's the angel?”

“Cas. His name is Castiel.”

“Doesn't ring a bell.” There was a laptop sitting on the coffee table. Sam pulled it nearer and booted it up.

“I guess he's new in town.”

The screen cast an eerie glow on Sam's face. He raised his eyebrows. “Helping the cops, he won't be in town long.”

“Here's the bottom line: he thinks we've got a golem.”

Sam's fingers froze above the keyboard. He leaned back, his expression gone entirely bitchfaced. “What? You got an angel yanking your chain, is what you got.”

Dean leaned forward. “Dude, I think the guy was onto something. Look, he guessed the breed of pig Benny raises for the blood.”

Sam was back to attacking his keyboard, once again cringing at mention of the vampire. “That could be a trick. I mean, suppose he did some background on Benny before you met?”

“I've considered it, but I think this guy is on the level. I grabbed a sample of the clay we saw around the scene and brought it to the lab guys. It's not local.”

Sam made a face. “Did you go to the temple? And did they tell you to go away?”

“I went to the temple. They told me to fuck myself. Literally.” Dean leaned over and pressed down the top of the laptop. Sam glared. “Sammy,” he whispered. “Suppose, just suppose, there was someone, a student, maybe, who wasn't too happy about what the angels were brewing, what with desecrating a historic site and all....”

“We're … _they're_ non-violent protests, Dean.”

“But can you think of anybody who might be … frustrated? Sam, I don't have to tell you, if someone's unleashed a golem, those things....”

“Are hard to control, yeah.” Sam sighed and once again pushed back his hair. 

Dean stared at his brother. “You know someone,” he stated.

“There's this stoner kid.... He won't get in trouble, right?”

“I just wanna talk.”

“Aaron Bass. He doesn't exactly run in my circles. But I understand his family's got some connections the Seminary.”

“He's a rabbinical student?”

“Oh, fuck no. Last time I heard, he was a small time drug dealer. And his parents are loaded. But his grandfather was a rabbi. Specialized in some of the more arcane stuff.”

“All right. We'll go have a talk.” Dean stood up and stretched, cracking his back. Sammy's couch was too damned floppy. Like his hair.

“Dean.”

“Yeah? Don't worry, I won't use your name.”

Sam was staring at his laptop screen. He hit a couple of keys. “I'm getting some hits on this Castiel down in the south.”

Dean hesitated, and then moved over to sit beside Sam. The brothers stared at the screen for a while. “The demon uprising?” said Dean.

Sam nodded.

 

“Twice in one day?” said Rabbi Turner. “First vampires, and now I'm being cornered by a fucking malak?”

Castiel pushed up his eyeglasses and tilted his head at the rabbi, who was bent over a manuscript. He had a shot glass at his elbow.

“Maybe they just can't get enough of your charming personality?” said the rabbi's friend, and old guy sitting next to him, grinning under a ball cap and also sipping whiskey.

“Am I not invited to have a drink as well?” asked Castiel. This seemed to be an essential human thing: Castiel had gathered this from his encounters with Crowley.

The two men looked at each other, Turner frowning, his friend grinning and rubbing his salt and pepper beard. “Aren't you on duty?” asked the rabbi. “Or whatever the fuck it is angels do?”

“As a matter of fact, I just walked off the job,” said Castiel.

“Can malakim do that?” asked the rabbi, who was already pulling out another glass.

“This one did!” laughed his friend, who grabbed another chair and pulled it to the table. Before Castiel sat down, the guy held out a hand to shake. “Bobby Singer, by the way,” he said.

“I am Castiel, Rabbi Singer.”

Now both of the men were laughing. “I'm no rabbi, Castiel.” At Castiel's raised eyebrow, he said, “ _Father_ Singer.” He pulled open his jacket to reveal a roman collar. “Or Bobby, after hours.”

Castiel contemplated the drink in front of him. He liked Rabbi Turner's residence: it was warm and filled with books and sacred scrolls and somewhere the smell of cooking. It seemed welcoming, in a way he could not describe. In a way his own apartment was not. “Father Singer,” he said, rolling the name over his tongue as he let the drink burn his throat. “Oh, of course. You are a mythological scholar.”

“I wouldn't call it anything so fancy,” said Bobby.

“He kills stuff,” said Rabbi Turner.

“As do you, unless I am gravely mistaken,” said Castiel. Turner frowned. “That scroll you have opened on the table. It's not a religious text: it pertains to a certain mythological monster.”

Turner and Singer didn’t say anything, but exchanged a look.

“All right, you caught us red-handed,” said Singer. “We’ve been looking for anybody who might wanna let a golem loose.”

“And…?” said Castiel.

“He’s dead,” said Turner. “Rabbi Bass.”

“Though he died under suspicious circumstances,” Singer added. 

Castiel looked back and forth between the men. The initial fear, which they had attempted to conceal, had faded, and now both evinced a rather appealing curiosity. “And he died without issue? Without family?”

“No, actually,” said Turner. “He had a son, but he refused rabbinical school. He’s a businessman. And quite prosperous.”

“No other male heirs?”

Turner and Singer exchanged another of those mysterious looks. “As it happens, we were just about to discuss this when you popped up,” Singer told him. “There’s a grandson, Aaron. No visible means of support other than Daddy’s money.”

“And he may or may not be sympathetic to the protestors,” Turner added.

“Do you have a current address?” asked Castiel.

Turner slipped him a piece of paper. “We were gonna go check in on him ourselves,” said Singer. “But I’m getting a little old for that kinda crap. Maybe he would respond to a malak?”

“You are like the Tajemny,” said Castiel with a smile.

“I guess,” Bobby allowed, although he didn’t appear to be flattered by the comparison.

Turner snorted. “At least you wouldn't see a vampire in our ranks.”

“Vampire?” asked Castiel. His blood ran cold. “Were you visited earlier by officers Winchester and Lafitte?”

“Hey, yeah. You know them?”

“I must go,” said Castiel. And then, with a breeze that left several of Rabbi Turner’s loose papers fluttering, he was there no more.

Turner leapt up to grab the papers. “Flying? Can they even do that?”

“Evidently,” said Singer, pouring himself another drink.

 

Castiel appeared in the middle of the street, pale and out of breath. He hadn’t used his wings in a while, and flying had put a strain on him. His heart was racing. For a moment, he bent over, hands on his knees, just trying to catch his breath. Perhaps he needed to take Crowley's advice, and get more to eat.

He pulled out his sword and, scanning the addresses, ran between two buildings, and into an alleyway, praying he had arrived here in time. Here it was: an older building. The recent wave of redevelopment hadn't hit this portion of the city yet, and there were a lot of abandoned structures. He hastened down the darkened alley. 

“Cas?”

He froze as Dean, and then Benny, slipped out of the shadows. He slumped. “Thank goodness I found you in time,” he whispered, leaning against a building.

“You OK, Cas?” asked Dean. The policeman appeared to have real concern in his voice.

“You are going to confront Aaron Bass,” said the angel, who was propped against the wall, breathing hard. “I am here to protect you.”

“Well, ain’t we a couple of lucky ducks?” said Benny with a low chuckle.

“Dean, you don’t know what a golem is capable of.” Castiel attempted to stand, but Dean ended up catching him. 

“So your plan is to ... what? Fall over on him?” asked Benny.

Cas shook off Dean’s hands and glared at Benny. “I flew here, as I was in haste. I have not exercised my wings in some time.” He straightened. 

“You can fly?” asked Dean, who felt somewhat like an ass. Castiel nodded. “Awesome!” said Dean, and Castiel gave him a very strange look.

“Why don’t you two ladies stay at the back of the pack, and we’ll ring Mr. Bass’s doorbell?” said Benny.

“I don’t believe Mr. Bass has such a thing as a doorbell,” said Castiel.

“Figure of speech, Cas,” said Dean, as they followed Benny towards one of the darker residences. The door, such as it was, was actually hanging ajar. Both Benny and Dean pulled out their weapons. 

“I don’t believe revolvers and silver bullets will be efficacious,” opined Cas.

Benny rolled his eyes. “Then what do you do when you’ve got a golem running at you?”

“Run. Or better yet, fly,” said Castiel.

“Just checked, and I ain’t equipped with wings,” Benny told them.

“I will carry you both away from harm,” said Castiel. Benny and Dean frowned at one another, but the angel seemed perfectly confident, even though he still looked fairly ashen. Benny pushed carefully at the door, and, hugging the wall, they went inside. He pulled out a flashlight and aimed the light around the room. The building was unoccupied and looked as if it had been so for some time, judging by all the dust and cobwebs. Dean and Benny darted into the other, connected rooms while Castiel remained near the door.

Benny returned a few minutes later, as did Dean. “No sign of anybody. You think he took off?” asked the vampire.

Castiel was near the staircase. He pointed upwards. Dean strained to hear. There were faint noises coming from one of the upper floors. “Could a golem get up these stairs?”

“Doubtful,” said Castiel, toeing the bottom step. A rotted chunk fell away. Benny gave Dean a questioning look, and Dean nodded, so they all carefully mounted the steps, taking care with the decaying wood.

By the time they reached the landing, Dean noticed not only noises, but a very distinct smell. Nodding to Benny, they stood on either side of the open door to the only room on that floor, while Castiel hung back. The room was darkened, but it looked like there might be a small, dim light source. 

Dean counted down, and then the both of them burst into the room, pointing weapons at the lone occupant. 

“Hey, dudes! Wanna party?” the man inquired cheerfully. He tilted the lamp, and the room brightened. 

“Tajemny,” said Dean, flashing his badge. 

“Oh, bummer,” said the guy. Benny yanked him to his feet, and patted him down. The young man continued smoking throughout. There was a huge cloud of smoke in the room.

“You don’t happen to be Aaron Bass?” asked Dean.

“Sure!” said Aaron, flopping back down to the ratty couch. Both Dean and Benny holstered their weapons. “I’ll be whoever you want.” He winked at Dean.

“Uh, are you Aaron Bass?” asked Dean as Castiel coughed and Benny smirked. 

“Why are you looking for me, man? I didn’t think Tajemny did drug busts.”

“We’re not looking for you, hotshot,” said Benny. “We’re looking for your friend, the little green slab of clay.”

Aaron finally dropped his casual attitude. “The golem? You’re fucking kidding me! That’s my grandfather’s crap.”

“We’ve heard you might be in on the family business,” Dean told him.

“There would be sacred … texts,” croaked Castiel, who lowered down on to the couch.

“Yeah, gramps gave me an old book. It made wicked rolling paper!”

Castiel coughed louder and stared. “Rolling paper?”

“You smoked the sacred text?” asked Dean.

“We caught ourselves a real winner here,” sighed Benny.

Dean rolled his eyes, and Castiel launched into a coughing fit.

 

“Ready to go over some figures, boss?”

Crowley glared at his minion. Unlike Castiel, she never, ever had to readjust her glasses. Nor was there ever a single hair out of place. “Cecily, how many times have I told you I dislike it when you sit at my desk?” He thumped down in one of the chairs opposite and poured himself a drink.

The demon woman smiled. “Not as if you've been keeping the chair warm, Your Bodaciousness.”

“You know, the only reason I haven't given you a good smiting is that I find you mildly amusing,” grumbled Crowley.

Cecil closed the laptop with one perfectly manicured hand. “How about this? I got some info on your new boyfriend.”

“I can't even imagine to whom you may be referring,” lolled Crowley.

“You don't find Mr. Sexy Angelpants hot?” she purred, arching a well-plucked eyebrow.

“Pray, deliver your information, and then scatter to whatever perdition you have sprung from.”

Cecil leaned forward, and Crowley too. “He's been spotted in a building near Old Town. In the company of a couple of Tajemny.”

“He's conducting an investigation.”

Cecily smirked. “Probably investigating that cute cop's ass. But I digress. Guess what else happened in that building?”

“Cecily, I am tired, with the weariness that comes with wisdom.”

“Remember we had that big aberration no one could account for?”

Crowley quite suddenly sat up and began to pay attention, nearly spilling his good Scotch in the process. Like all good demon kings, Crowley kept track of things. One of those things was the use of magic in the vicinity. There had been a very powerful spell hatched some time back, by user or users unknown. “We never accounted for it?”

Cecil smugly shook her head. 

“All right. You have proved your usefulness, at least for another 24-hour period. Go, scurry, and tell me everything about the aberration. Everything.”

“You got it, Boss Man,” said Cecil, who was quite suddenly no longer occupying Crowley's chair. She left only a slight scent of sulfur mixed with Chanel No. 5.

 

“When do you think they’ll have the elevator repaired?”

“It hasn’t been in service since I moved here,” said Castiel, who was fussing with his keys. He opened his apartment door. “As I said, you really didn’t have to accompany me all the way up here. I am capable of returning home on my own.”

Dean looked back down the staircase. It was a long way up, especially if the angel had to do it every day. “Just worried about you, Cas. You should have seen yourself: you were turning blue.”

“I don’t care for the aroma of those particular herbs,” Castiel grumbled, edging his eyeglasses back up with the back of his hand. He hesitated, seeming uncertain for a moment. “Uh, would you like to enter my apartment?”

Dean nodded, thinking of Benny waiting in the car outside. “Sure. But I can’t stay long.” And then he followed Castiel inside. He spun around as the lights were turned on, instantly impressed. It was hard to tell from the outside, but this was probably one of those places a wealthy angelic family used to occupy. “Wow, and you live here alone? The whole floor to yourself?”

“In actuality,” said Castiel, “there are no other tenants in this residence.” Castiel placed his rumpled trench coat on a hook. “My, er, _family_ owns this particular building.”

“Bet this was an amazing place, back in the day,” said Dean, gazing up at the ceiling. Someone had painted a mural up there, though it was difficult to see beneath layers of dust. He suddenly looked back at Castiel. “Uh, not that it’s not great now.”

Castiel shrugged, but did not appear offended. “I attempt to live simply,” he told Dean.

The furniture was like the apartment: well-made, but in grave need of attention. There was a package of chocolates opened on the much-used coffee table. “Uh, that stuff’s not simple,” said Dean. He nudged the package. “It’s from one of the most expensive shops in town.”

“Crowley’s,” said Castiel, wrinkling his nose. 

“Oh!” Dean drew back, as if the package were poison.

“The demon has been entering my apartment against my will,” Castiel told him. “I have warding, but it appears to be insufficient.” He pointed off to one of the other rooms. “He bought me groceries.”

Dean had to smile. Was Crowley turning into the angel’s doting grandmother? First there had been the dinner, and now stocking the pantry. Definitely weird. “Well, I do appreciate you rushing all the way across town to save my ass from the golem.”

“I wished to assist Officer Lafitte as well,” Cas put in.

“Oh. Didn't think you _liked_ Officer Lafitte?”

Cas grunted.

As the silence stretched out, Dean looked around for a less fraught topic of conversation. He pointed to some double doors. “What does this lead to?”

“I have a balcony, though I’m rarely out there.”

“Do you mind?” asked Dean, grabbing the handles. Cas smiled mildly, and shook his head. Dean opened the doors and ventured out. The city spread out below him. “Holy crap,” he said. “This is gorgeous, Cas!”

Castiel drew nearer, leaning against the doorframe. “I suppose so.”

“If I had this view, I’d be out here every night!” The angel shrugged. “I guess if you’ve always had it like this, it’s nothing special.”

“What exactly have I had?” asked Castiel. 

Dean cringed. Had he put his foot in his mouth again? But Castiel didn’t seem put out: only curious. His eyes were questioning. 

He drew nearer to Castiel. “I just mean you’ve always been an angel.”

“A privileged upbringing?”

“Yeah. I mean, no offense, but for us, it was different. My mom died when I was little, and it was tough for my brother and me.”

“You have a brother?”

Dean’s face softened. “Yeah, a little brother. I mean, he’s big as heck, now.” He gestured, putting his hand up in the air. “He’s gonna be a big shot lawyer some day.”

“But you’re worried about him.”

It wasn’t a question: it was a statement. Dean wondered why he had opened himself up so much to this guy … this _creature_. Was it true what they said about angels and mind-reading?

“Do you know why I so rarely open these doors now?” asked Castiel. Dean shook his head as the angel stared out towards the twinkling lights of the city. “When I open them, I find I contemplate jumping off the balcony.”

“What? Cas, no!” said Dean. And suddenly, as if of its own volition, his hand was on Cas’s face. “Don’t think that way.” He bit his lip, his thumb gently brushing Cas’s cheek. He leaned forward and, as Cas’s eyes fluttered shut, kissed him. And for a brief moment, time stopped.

Dean drew back. Cas blinked, gazing at him.

“Hey, wait,” said Dean, glancing off the balcony, and then back at the angel. “You said you could fly.”

Castiel broke into a wry smile. “Perhaps, it was not the most well thought out plan.”

Dean threw his head back and laughed, and Cas’s smiled widened. Dean leaned forward and kissed him again. His lips were soft and warm. “Damn!” he muttered. “I gotta get back downstairs. Benny is gonna kill me.” He cupped Cas’s face in his hands. “Some other time? Soon?”

The angel nodded, and, reluctantly, Dean moved towards the door. “They are going to restart construction work in Zizkov quite soon,” said Castiel. “Though I’ve done all I can to forestall them.”

“I can’t believe someone actually uses words like, ‘forestall,’” said Dean.

They smiled at one another, and then Dean was out the door, and down the 115 steps, Benny asking him what the hell he was doing up there so long and was that a hickey on his neck.


	4. Chapter 4

It was thrilling. Seductive. Addictive. 

Sam checked his phone, and felt for the banner he had hidden under his coat.

“You ready, Jess?”

She smiled nervously, and gripped his hand. He leaned over and kissed her. Dean's first remark upon meeting Jessica had been that she was far out of his brother's league. And with that, Sam wholeheartedly agreed. Smart and brave and funny and that wasn't even mentioning beautiful: he had no idea what she saw in some scruffy, gangly law student. But he didn't really care. 

They shared a look, and then sprinted, hand in hand, to the appointed meeting place. There was a crowd already. That was good: word was spreading, and these protests were growing. Soon, very soon, they would bring down the corrupt angelic government. They just had to join together. People power!

He cast his eyes up and down the street. One problem with these events gaining popularity was the possibility of interference. There were the riot police, for one, and the strikebreakers, who he suspected were on the government payroll. He nodded, and they worked their way into the edge of the crowd. It was the best place: it offered cover, but you could also break into a run if you needed to.

It was still a few minutes until the appointed time. Sam caught the eye of a few people he recognized. There were some furtive nods. They had picked a time when there were still a lot of pedestrians around, scuttling home from work, doing shopping, running errands. This was good, this would make people aware of their movement. But they had to be careful....

“Sam!” 

Sam flinched and spun around, Jess's face blanched. He peered at the kid running towards them, huffing and puffing. 

Sam grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away from the crowd, while Jess trailed behind. “Aaron,” he whispered. “What the hell?”

“What?” asked Aaron Bass, looking around. 

“There's gonna be a … _thing_ here,” hissed Sam.

“Oh. Cool.” Thankfully, Aaron was now at least keeping his voice down. “Hey, I wanted to ask you, you're related to a cop named Winchester?”

Sam sighed. “Let's get out of here to talk,” he said, nodding to Jess. He gave Aaron a push, and led them away from the gathering crowd. Some of his contacts knew that his brother worked for the Tajemny, but it wasn't the kind of thing Sam wanted widely known among the movement. That would be bad for him as well as Dean.

Sam led them to a quiet little cafe on a side street. “What's this about, Aaron?” Sam asked once they had all ordered coffee and the waitress had departed. 

“So, I had a visit the other night from the Tajemny.” Aaron leaned back in the worn booth, now looking a little more surreptitious. Sam noticed his pupils weren't terribly dilated, although as usual, he reeked of smoke. He appeared more or less sober right now, which was unusual. “Officers Lafitte … and Winchester. I thought you might know something about that.”

Sam nodded: there was no use denying it. “Yeah. Dean's my brother. What of it?”

“And an angel. An angel with the flu or something.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, wondering how much of this was going to be real, and how much one of Aaron's fever dreams. The kid was wealthy: from various comments, Sam had made out he'd grown up as rich as an angel, the direct opposite of Sam's childhood. But at some point Aaron had broken away from his family, though Sam was never quite certain why. Surely the drug abuse didn't help things. “An angel named Castiel?” Sam asked.

“Your brother kept calling him Cas, so probably. Anyway, he told this crazy story about a golem. And I told them that I didn't know anything.”

Sam nodded, trying to keep his face impassive. The waitress brought a round of coffee, and he occupied himself stirring sugar into his cup, trying to ignore the puzzled faces Jess was making. He idly wished he had sent her back to their apartment. He supposed he would catch her up on this, more or less, afterwards. She had the impression that his family was involved in some kind of business that involved monsters, but he had been purposefully vague about the details. It made things a little weird that Dean had gotten a job with the Tajemny, but things could have been worse. He could have ended up like their father.

“A golem? Like in the nineteenth century?” Jess asked.

“Actually, the same one,” said Aaron. “It's not as if they rot. They're made of clay.”

“So they asked you about your grandfather's stuff?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, and, you know, I told 'em I told the old man to take a hike. I mean, not in so many words. But then I got to thinking. He'd given me a _shem_.”

“I don't know what that is,” Sam admitted. He was being honest: no one had seen one of those monsters in decades: definitely not in his lifetime, nor that of his father. 

“It's like an ignition key. Mystical writing that can start it. Or stop it.”

“All right. So, you still have it?”

“Well, it was in a magic lockbox. You know how those magical guys are, right? Like your dad?”

This got another skeptical glance from Jess. Sam nodded at Aaron. After his death, he and Dean had found that John Winchester had storage lockers all over town, all of them crammed with oddments, including a large number of puzzle boxes. He and Dean had figured out some of them, but after a couple of unfortunate experiences, had decided most of the stuff was better locked away. “So, you have a lockbox?”

“But someone had busted into it!”

“No, that's not possible,” said Sam. “It's almost impossible to spring those things even if you know the enchantments.”

“Maybe whoever did it … was very powerful.” Aaron shook his head, as if shaking off the very thought. For once, he actually appeared frightened. 

Sam felt Jess's hand on his arm. “You need to know a special spell?” she asked. Humans were forbidden the use of magic by a very strict angelic law, although nearly everyone knew a spell or two.

“Well, yeah,” Sam told her. “It's usually pretty complicated. And stuff is in a lockbox for a reason. At least that's what we found out.” As for someone breaking in with brute force, well, Sam didn't even want to think about it. “Any ideas who?” he asked Aaron.

“No. And don't ask me, 'cause I'm not gonna bother with the cops. It's not as if you can dust for magic.”

“They have ways. And you lost the _shem_?”

“Ah!” said Aaron, breaking into a smile. He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. He slipped it across the table. 

Sam, picked it up. “What is this?”

“I'm not an idiot,” said Aaron, tapping his own head. “I knew if anyone came after it, the lockbox was the first place they'd look. So I had taken it out. Kept it safe.”

“Kept it … where?” asked Sam arching an eyebrow and thinking perhaps he'd seen too many prison movies.

“Doesn't matter. But if someone's after it, I can't keep it any more. You need to take it.”

“Aaron! You can't give me this!”

Aaron shrugged. “So take it to your brother. The cop.”

“But … Aaron.”

Suddenly, a series of loud bangs, like gunshots, sounded outside. Sam turned to the window. There were people running, and screams. 

“Gunfire!” whispered Jess.

“Get down!” said Sam, pulling her under the table with him. There were sirens, and more shouting, and yet more gunfire. A police vehicle raced down the main street, the siren wailing, higher than lower.

“Strikebreakers?” asked Jess. “I didn't see them.”

“We should get out of here,” said Sam. “Away from this part of the city. Hey, where's Aaron?” He pushed himself up and looked around, but Aaron was nowhere to be seen. The envelope with the _shem_ , however, was still on the table. “Dammit,” Sam muttered. He stuffed it into his jacket pocket and reached out for Jess's hand. “Let's see if this place has a back door,” he suggested.

 

“Construction is scheduled to resume tomorrow morning,” said Castiel, hanging his coat up on the hook by his door.

Crowley emerged from Castiel’s kitchen. He was wearing a flowered apron, and holding a mixing bowl. “No, 'Hi, honey, I'm home?' You just start in? And how did you know it was me?”

“You are always here,” sighed Castiel, sitting down on the couch and loosening his tie. 

“I noticed you re-did the warding again. I could smell the paint.”

Castiel smelled the air. “What is cooking?”

“Winter squash carbonera with pancetta and fresh sage.”

“It smells good,” Castiel commented.

Crowley returned to the kitchen, and there was the sound of pots and pans clanging. “I thought we'd stay in for dinner tonight,” he called out. “Though I reckon I'm not the date you had in mind.”

Castiel glared, though the effect was lessened, as Crowley couldn’t see him. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, not that nice, handsome police officer?”

“He's human.”

“As if that would stop you. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to make me jealous?”

“Why should you be jealous, Crowley?” But just then, the blender started up. Annoyed, Castiel sighed and entered the kitchen, where he found that the demon had removed seemingly every pot, pan and serving dish to prepare his meal. He thought about the hours he would probably spend cleaning, and then told himself not to dwell on it. There was a bare space on the countertop, so he sat down there. He found himself with a glass of wine in his hand. 

“Sip, don’t guzzle,” said Crowley, who was now hovering over a food processor.

“Do I have a food processor?” asked Castiel. The wine tasted faintly of licorice.

“No, of course not. Your kitchen is woefully inadequate to my purposes,” fussed Crowley. 

“Which are?”

“Supplying a clinically depressed celestial being with an adequate caloric intake.”

“I’m not depressed,” Castiel grumbled. He reached for a bit of sliced tomato, and Crowley gestured threateningly with the knife. “But to what end?”

“There is a monster loose in my city, and it’s not one of mine. I want it gone.”

“You’re not recruiting, then?”

Crowley was fussing with a fry pan in a rather flashy manner. “Is that what you think?”

“I have been warned. As is commonly understood, a demon’s mission is to create additional demons.”

“I asked if that was what you thought, not the common opinion. I hardly would have taken you in as a protégé if you held only the common opinion!”

Castiel tilted his head, which he often did when he was positing. 

“Make yourself marginally useful an put out some plates,” Crowley scolded. “I’m not going to let my masterwork congeal while you dither about setting the damned table.”

Castiel hopped down from the counter and occupied himself for a time with arranging two place settings. Crowley plated the pasta, and they sat down across from one another.

“It’s not clear that your magic would be effective on me,” said Castiel, eyeing the pasta at the end of his fork.

“You’re still thinking it over? And for the sake of all that’s unholy, don’t play with your food.” 

Shrugging, Castiel ate a mouthful of pasta. It was delicious. He hadn’t noticed the taste of food for a while: it was an interesting sensory experience. He took another bite. 

“My butcher makes the pancetta especially. But you know what intrigues me?” said Crowley, refilling their wine glasses.

“I can’t even imagine,” said Castiel, who was now washing down more pasta with the rich red wine.

“You didn’t dismiss the notion out of hand. Demons are unclean, aren’t we?”

“I saw you wash your hands.”

“Don’t be snotty!”

Castiel wound more pasta around his fork, his lips tracing a small smile. 

“Don’t your sort usually keep your distance from mine?” Crowley wondered.

“As you’ve said, I don’t cotton to the common opinion. I prefer to derive my views from the evidence. And it occurs to me that, in this case, we may have a common purpose.”

“About that…” said Crowley. Castiel looked up from his pancetta. “I have some information about your new friend, Aaron Bass. He is a big-time user of recreational substances….”

“Apparently,” grumbled Castiel.

“As well as a decidedly small-time user of magic.”

That led Castiel to put down his fork. “There are undoubtedly many such, including many humans.”

“Ah, but something rather big happened in his apartment a few weeks back.”

“Yes?”

Crowley swirled his wine. “Enough that my informants were intrigued. As you so insightfully pointed out, there are many magic users in the city. Larger uses leave larger traces.”

“Aaron wasn’t being forthcoming?”

“As far as we can tell, Aaron wasn’t present at the time of the incident. By all accounts, he was skulking about one of those unsavory anti-government protest meetings.”

Castiel mulled this over for a while. “Not a terribly good alibi. No wonder he didn’t volunteer this information to the Tajemny. Do you have a hypothesis as to the magic user in question? And what was the purpose?”

“That is what I keep you around for, angel. Care for coffee?”

 

“You see this board?” asked Lt. Henricksen. “This white board right here?”

Sitting at their cluttered desks, Dean and Benny sighed while the rest of the squad room looked on in amusement. The Tajemny were housed in one of the older, historical buildings near the city's center. It was a lovely place with polished wood surfaces and smooth marble floors, but a bit cramped, with people and desks crammed in anywhere they would fit. There were a row of dispatchers lined up in a large old walk-in closet. The high-ceilinged main room was dominated by a large white board, which listed extant cases. 

“What I need is for you to take this big black marker, like right here!” He held up a fat marking pen. “And draw a line right through some of these cases, like this.” He demonstrated, with a broad line. “That's called, clearing cases. You hear me?”

Dean glared at his computer screen and Benny played with a baseball that was sitting on his desk.

Lt. Henricksen stood up and puffed out his chest. “I said, do you hear me, Agents Winchester and Lafitte?”

There was some muffled chuckling.

“Yeah, we hear you, Lt. Henricksen,” muttered Dean.

“What was that?” Henricksen put a hand to his ear. “I couldn't hear that.”

“Turn up your hearin' aide,” grumbled Benny. Dean glared at him, although a smile flickered on his face.

“Are you boys going to clear some cases?”

“We're gonna clear some cases,” said Dean.

“You're gonna clear some cases … what?”

“We're gonna clear some cases, _sir _.”__

__Henrickson swaggered off, wearing a ridiculously smug expression. Dean put up his hand just in time to catch the baseball that had been lobbed his way. “We need a break in this case,” he muttered, tossing the ball back to the vampire._ _

__“Maybe someone’s been too distracted by pretty little angels.” Benny fluttered his hands in a ridiculous imitation of wings._ _

__“Fuck yourself,” Dean told him. “Hey, is that my brother?” he asked, sighting the gangly form of his brother by the doorway. He waved to the young man, and Sam hurried over to his desk. Dean noticed he appeared furtive. “What’s the word, Sammy?”_ _

__“I’ve got something to tell you,” said Sam. “Is there some place private?”_ _

__Dean nodded and stood. So did Benny. “No,” said Sam, pointing and making a sour expression. “Not him.”_ _

__“Sammy, business hours, you know,” said Dean, inclining his head at Benny._ _

__Sam glared, but Benny stubbornly followed the brothers to an unoccupied office. Sam and Dean took seats opposite one another at a table, while Benny hung back. Sam looked uncertain for a while, and then finally said, “I take it you followed up my lead. With that person.”_ _

__Dean nodded. “We didn’t say nothin’ about you, kid,” Benny told him. He leaned back against the door frame._ _

__Sam frowned at Benny. Dean was aware his kid brother didn’t exactly approve of vampires. “All right,” Sam said. “But Winchester isn’t exactly a common name. He figured it out.”_ _

__“Shit, I’m sorry.” Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair. He didn't like dragging his kid brother into all of this. His father had ordered him to protect Sam, not drag him down._ _

__Sam stared at his hands. “It may have saved our skins. We were … out. You heard what happened ... the other night?”_ _

__Sam didn't have to say it: the protest. There had been a scuffle, and several protestors had ended up injured, and a couple had died. “Jesus, Sammy!” Benny raised an eyebrow, but Dean signaled to keep quiet. He just hoped Sam hadn't dragged Jess along._ _

__“We were … around, let’s say. And so was Aaron. But we went off to talk. And that’s when he dumped this on me.” Sam took an envelope out of his jacket and set it on the table._ _

__“What is it?” asked Dean. He opened it up and peered inside. It appeared to be a parchment with some arcane marks._ _

__“Something called a _shem_. I did a little research. The way he described it, it’s like an ignition key for a golem.”_ _

__“So it turns the bastard on?” asked Benny._ _

__“And turns it off. So he said. But that’s not all. Someone tried to steal it. He had kept it in a lockbox, before he got paranoid and put it somewhere else. Someone actually forced the lockbox.”_ _

__“That’s not possible!” said Dean._ _

__“That's what I told him. But then we heard gunfire, and Aaron took off some time in the confusion. I haven't been able to contact him at any of his usual haunts.”_ _

__“We spooked him?” said Benny. “Because that boy sure as hell didn't act spooked.”_ _

__“He was a little under the influence,” said Dean. But what Benny said was true: the guy they'd met had seemed pretty unflappable, even in the presence of an angel._ _

__“I think it was the broken lockbox,” said Sam. “That seemed to actually frighten him.”_ _

__“We gotta figure out more about this _shem_ thing,” said Dean. He tucked the envelope into his jacket. “We'll figure it out. Don't worry.”_ _

__“Should we talk to Rabbi Pottymouth again?” asked Benny._ _

__Dean nodded and got up. “Yeah, and call the angel.”_ _

__“Wait, call him? Like on the telephone?”_ _

__“He's got a cell,” laughed Dean._ _

__“Dean?” said Sam. “I'd.... I'd like to come along too.”_ _

__Dean stared at his brother. “I thought you wanted to stay out of this?”_ _

__“I've been reading up on the golem legends. I mean, a little.” He shrugged broad shoulders. “You know, old habits?”_ _

__“Benny?” asked Dean._ _

__The vampire threw his hands up good-naturedly. “We already got an angel fluttering along behind us. Why not your damned little brother?”_ _

__Dean grinned and took out his cell phone. The Winchester brothers, both investigating. What could go wrong?_ _

__

__The angel stood vigil, wings flapping slowly in the soft breeze._ _

__If you were a human, as were so many residents of the city, you would not have been able to see his wings. Other creatures: perhaps they could see more. But Castiel doubted there were any such on the construction crew. And it didn't matter, as he was up on the top of a half-ruined old structure of a church steeple, out of sight. He had flown here, so he was a little tired, but what kind of angel would he be, unable to use his wings? Naomi had bent him, but he was not broken._ _

__They had resumed construction at the Zizkov site, against his wishes, and, if you had asked him, against all good sense. But there was nothing he could do. So far, his investigations had not uncovered the identity of Crowley's mysterious magic user, although he did receive a new set of demon warding sigils from Rabbi Turner and his friend, Father Singer. He had repainted the walls of his apartment building just before coming here._ _

__The magical traces Crowley had reported annoyed him. An entity would have to be awfully powerful to leave such a signature behind. As powerful as an angel, most likely. Perhaps more so. And that not only annoyed him, it worried him._ _

__Below him, crews of men set equipment into motion, digging into the ground. There were more foundations to lay. Supposedly they had already moved the bodies that had lain at rest in the old graveyard all these centuries, though Castiel was frankly skeptical of the claim given all the graft associated with his people. Was that the origin of whatever curse plagued this area? Or was it something else? He still had no explanation for the creatures that had attacked him and the policemen back when they had first come to investigate the most recent killing._ _

__According to his calculations, they were due for another attack. But the day had passed quietly, with much progress. Now, as they passed into evening, the work crew was beginning to break up, as one by one, the workers mounted their vehicles and headed home, to warmth and family._ _

__He felt the cellular phone in his jacket pocket vibrate to life. He plucked it out, peering inquisitively at the screen. The policeman was calling him. Unbidden, his lips pulled back into a smile. His policeman._ _

__He was about to press the keyboard to pick up when he spotted it: a small flicker movement in the corner of his eye. Something lurked in the shadows._ _

__He pocketed the phone. And jumped._ _

__

__“Well, it's not like an ignition key,” said Rabbi Turner._ _

__“More like an owner's manual,” said Bobby Singer._ _

__As it turned out, the grumpy rabbi had an even grumpier partner in crime. And now the both of them were bent over the rabbi's desk, peering through reading glasses at the _shem_. _ _

__Benny had given up on the whole thing, wandering back out to the car, muttering some kind of excuse about low blood sugar. Sam had been more than a little skeptical, but had kept mum when Dean gave him a warning look. “Maybe it's an alternator,” he told the two old men._ _

__Singer and Turner looked at each other. “Yes, maybe an alternator!” said Turner excitedly._ _

__Dean sighed and sunk further into the comfortable leather couch in the rabbi’s apartment. He grunted, and pulled a another paperback out from under his ass. It was another western, _Wolf Mountain: the Hour of Blood_. He smirked and thumbed through it, wondering which of the erudite scholars was a fan of dime novels. He glanced over at Sam, now hunched over the table with the old men, poring over the arcane texts, and thought he brother would have made a great rabbinical student. Which would have sent his father to an even earlier grave! Hell, who was he kidding? Sammy would have made a good anything. _ _

__Dean stared at the paperback. “Hey, guys, there’s no wolves around here, right?”_ _

__“What? Haven’t been for years,” muttered Singer._ _

__“No, local hunters made sure of that,” grumbled Turner. “Haven’t seen one since I was a boy.”_ _

__“We were attacked. The other day, in Zizkov.”_ _

__Now three pairs of eyes were on him. “Dean, you didn’t tell me!” said Sam._ _

__“They were like wolves. We never got a good look at them, though. It was the three of us: me and Benny, and Cas was along too.”_ _

__“Silver bullets?” asked Singer._ _

__“Of course.”_ _

__“And you had one of the malakim with you?” asked the rabbi._ _

__“He’s better at fighting than he looks,” laughed Dean. “Anyway, the only way we got out was when Crowley showed up with a hellhound.”_ _

__“He’s got a damned hellhound?” asked Turner._ _

__“Told you,” said Singer._ _

__“You did not tell me.”_ _

__“I told you he was hiding something up there.”_ _

__“That doesn’t mean you guess he has a hellhound!” insisted Turner._ _

__“It wasn’t a guess! It was careful deduction,” countered Singer._ _

__“Guys!” said Sam. “Can a golem cause a wolf attack?”_ _

__It only took Singer and Turner one glance to cease bickering. “No!” they chorused._ _

__“Then what the hell was it?” asked Dean, and both of the men looked confused._ _

__“Shadow wolves?” asked Singer._ _

__“Could it be..?” muttered Turner._ _

__Just at that moment, Benny burst in. “Dean! We got trouble, brother.”_ _

__“A call?” asked Dean, who was already on his feet._ _

__“Zizkov,” was Benny’s one-word reply._ _

__“Son of a bitch!”_ _

__“I’ll go with you, Dean,” said Sam._ _

__“Oh, hell no!” Dean told him. “You stay here and … research, or something! Come on!” Leaving Sam fuming with the rabbi and his friend, Dean rushed to the car, and he and his partner roared off into the gathering darkness._ _

__

__Angels tended to live a very long lifetime. It was clear to Castiel that his lifetime had come to a rather abrupt end._ _

__Although, he mused, he should probably count himself lucky: he had gotten to see an actual golem. The thing was staring at him right now, massive and furious, like a slab of earth come alive._ _

__He held his bleeding side with one hand, and gripped his angel sword with the other. He was uncertain whether the weapon could do any damage to the creature – if indeed it could be called a creature. He thought perhaps it was held off, if only temporarily, by the magical power._ _

__“Get away!” he yelled, not daring to look behind him. “Get to your cars!”_ _

__“You’re bleeding!” came a voice. One of the men._ _

__It had started with those shadow things, hurtling out of the darkness. One of the creatures had wounded Castiel, bitten him on the side. That was before he perceived their purpose. They weren’t here to kill, although they had felled a couple of the working men: they were here to _herd_. They had slowly forced the remaining workers, Castiel included, into a muddy pit where they had been digging the foundation. _ _

__And there stood the golem. Castiel had seen it rip at least two men limb from limb right before his eyes. It had picked them up like they were no more than children’s toys and torn them apart, while they screamed in agony. Castiel had slumped, bleeding, against the side of the pit. That was before he had gathered the last of his strength and rushed to the front of the pack, holding his sword high. This would be his death, but he would go out standing up and fighting, not cowering like prey._ _

__It was ten feet tall, and must have weighed nearly a ton. The hands were massive, palms big as shovel blades, with but three strong, stubby fingers._ _

__“Get away from him, asshole!” came a cry. And then a flurry of rocks came pelting at the clay monstrosity._ _

__“Dean,” Castiel whispered to himself. For a split second, he felt a ray of hope. But then the panic began to rise. “Get out of here!” he screamed. And then he thought of the surviving workers, clustered behind him in the pit. “Get them out of here!”_ _

__“Duck!” came a cry. Castiel hit the ground as a flame spun into the pit. It hit the golem, and the beast exploded into flame. A Molotov cocktail!_ _

__It wasn’t going to stop the golem, but while the great beast was distracted, Castiel turned and shouted at the gathered workers, “Get away! Now!”_ _

__“Come on!” yelled Benny, who was now standing at the edge of the pit. He had tossed a rope down, and a few of the men were clambering up. The vampire was hastening the process by yanking them up to the ledge once they got in reach._ _

__The ground trembled: the thing was coming for him again._ _

__His side aching, Castiel raised his sword at the thing. “Get away!” he yelled. He knew he was nothing: a pitiful little being with a tin blade against an unholy mountain._ _

__A shot rang out: the golem’s shoulder exploded. It turned, redirecting its fury._ _

__“Fuck you, buddy!” hollered Dean. He fired off some more shots from the shotgun he was holding. The golem turned._ _

__“Dean, no!” yelled Cas. It was getting dark, and for some reason, he was down on his knees. His side was throbbing, and his head had started to spin._ _

__“Dean! Here!”_ _

__It was another voice, one Castiel didn't recognize._ _

__“Sammy, what the hell!”_ _

__“Give me a leg up. Come on! Now!”_ _

__Castiel was utterly confused. He glimpsed a tall man climbing awkwardly onto Dean's shoulders and then.... Was Dean actually charging a golem?_ _

__Cas could only mutter a sorrowful, “No.” But then something very odd happened. He felt a burst of magic nearby. He moaned and slumped to the ground. The golem froze in place and then, suddenly, it shattered into a million pieces like a cheap piece of crockery. There was yelling, but it was now the cheerful kind._ _

__And then arms were around him._ _

__“Cas? Cas, you OK?” Dean, caked with mud, was cradling him._ _

__“What happened?” Castiel managed to whisper._ _

__“I fed it the _shem_!” declared the tall man. _ _

__“You had the _shem_?” asked Castiel. _ _

__“We just got it. Tried to call, but you weren't picking up,” Dean told him. “We'll get you to a hospital, buddy. You'll be OK.”_ _

__“Home,” said Castiel as sirens wailed in the distance._ _

__“Wait, you sure?”_ _

__“Take me home.”_ _

__

__Crowley stood in the drafty lobby of the old opera house. He had been called away from Act Two of Faust. And that was his favorite piece. Somebody was going to pay._ _

__“What is it, Cecily?” muttered Crowley as his factotum appeared before him. He lowered his dark glasses and glared at her, but immediately ceased when he read her expression. She looked almost human, and it had been a long time since that one was anything close to human._ _

__“Bad news, sir,” she said. Another bad sign: no trace of the sass._ _

__“Dammit, woman, speak!”_ _

__

__Dean hurried down the stairs of Castiel's apartment building. There were 115 steps: he had counted them on the way up. Despite his injury, the angel had absolutely insisted on being brought back to this place. “I'm warded,” he had mumbled._ _

__Dean hadn't argued, but had piled him in the back of the car and driven him into town, a move he'd regretted as soon as they got to the apartment and he needed to assist the wounded angel up to his sixth floor apartment. Cas had collapsed on the couch, shivering. Dean had grabbed a blanket to throw over him, but didn't know what else to do: did angels have their own doctors?_ _

__And then the demon had shown up. Downstairs._ _

__Making certain Cas was safe on the couch, Dean headed down, muttering curses. He found Crowley out on the sidewalk, pacing restlessly. Despite the late hour, he was still wearing those ridiculous sunglasses. “Why the hell didn't you just come up, Crowley?”_ _

__Crowley was quite suddenly directly in front of him. “He's warded the place. He must have figured out how. You need to let me in. Now!”_ _

__Dean crossed his arms. “Why would I let you in if he wanted to keep you out?”_ _

__“He's dying, you idiot!”_ _

__“Dying?” Dean stood firm, but he felt a chill nevertheless_ _

__“Yes, can't you feel it?”_ _

__Dean paused. Yes, there was something not right. It could have been the traces of magic. Did angels give off magic when they were ill? There were so many things he didn't know._ _

__“What happened out there?” Crowley asked. “Did the golem injure him?”_ _

__“No, but I guess he got bitten by one of those wolf things.”_ _

__Crowley paused, as if surprised. “You need to let me up! Let me up there, now! He's cursed, you simpleton! Some kind of black magic!”_ _

__“And you can help him?”_ _

__“I don't know, but I can keep him alive!”_ _

__Dean turned around to stare up at the top floor. “I don't know.”_ _

__“Think! It's not that hard: live angel … or dead angel.”_ _

__Dean bit his lip. He turned and strode back into the building's lobby._ _

__And then he took out his pocket knife, and slashed through the warding mark that had been drawn there._ _

__There was a breeze. “Crowley?” Dean looked out the door, but the demon was gone: there was nothing there but a cane lying unattended on the sidewalk. “God dammit!” yelled Dean. And then he was racing up the 115 steps, taking them two or three at a time, up to the sixth floor, where the door was already open. “Crowley, god dammit....”_ _

__The room was empty, the blanket thrown back from the couch._ _

__The double doors to the balcony were open wide. Dean, out of breath, ran to them. He scanned the city, dark with night, and thought he saw something moving on one of the rooftops. But then there was nothing – nothing but silence._ _


	5. Chapter 5

“We're all thankful that you guys took care of that golem, but it's time to get back to solving cases.”

Dean glanced up from his computer. Lt. Henricksen was leaning against his desk, and Benny was trying to look busy. 

“I don't think we solved it, Lieutenant. I know the angels want you to think that.”

Henricksen turned halfway around to point at the large whiteboard that dominated one side of the squad room. “Do you see the case up there? And do you notice something? It's got a line drawn straight through it. Now, what does that mean?”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“What does that mean, Winchester?”

“It means solved, but-”

“Thank you! It means solved! And I like solved cases.” He tossed a file onto Dean's desk. “Now, I got a complaint from down by the river. Think we got a Vodnik. You and Mr. Teeth go check it out.”

Dean nodded and flipped open the file. “I hate fucking water spirits,” he muttered.

“I could tell him it's impossible for my people to cross over a river!” offered Benny.

“You cross the river every day to commute to work.”

The vampire grinned a pointy-toothed grin. “Wanna get our asses to the river?”

It was a lovely day outside. Spring had come, fast and early to the city that year. As they were venturing out in Benny’s truck, Dean stared out at the scenery passing by as they drove through town and then out along the river that divided it. They would pass near Zizkov, although the actual site was now hidden by a high fence, but they were close enough to see the tall cranes hovering over like giant vultures awaiting prey. Work had resumed in earnest almost as soon as the mess had been cleaned up. Very little was said about what happened: supposedly to avoid panicking the citizenry. Dean suspected that the victims’s families had been paid off, and workers had been found to replace them.

He hadn’t heard a thing from Cas. His cell phone didn’t pick up, and his building stood empty. And, yes, Dean had been by. Multiple times, if you wanted to be frank about it.

On the other hand, he had seen his brother a lot in the past few weeks. They had immediately agreed that something didn’t seem right with the golem. Aaron Bass had disappeared completely, and so he had been a convenient fall guy, but neither of the Winchesters felt he was the sole perpetrator. However, more characteristically, the brothers had immediately quarreled about the appropriate response. Sam had decided that more research was needed, which sat fine with Dean, but had also determined that he, Sam Winchester, was the one to conduct it, in the company of Rabbi Turner and Father Singer, who were now, annoyingly enough, Rufus and Bobby to young Sam. Dean, on the other hand, wished his little brother as far away as possible from potentially dangerous investigation. Although he also suspected this new hobby was cutting down on the time his brother engaged in anti-government protests, which was not the healthiest pastime these days. Dean had no idea how much time the boy had for sleep. He spent rather a lot of time these days worrying.

Almost before he knew it, they had arrived at the appropriate spot near the river. Benny immediately wandered around the truck bed to grab some supplies. “You gotta bring ‘em tobacco,” he told Dean. “And some of these critters are fussy about it.”

Dean mused about what he knew of the creatures, cursing himself that he’d worn a new shirt today. With water monsters you always expected to end up dunked in the muddy water. Benny stuffed the tobacco into a little porcelain cup, and set it out on a rock near the water. “Shouldn’t be long,” he said.

In fact, just then, an old man came wandering down the bank. He was unremarkable, except for the ridiculous big straw boater had he was wearing, complete with blue and green ribbons trailing from it. Also, as he drew nearer, Dean saw that the back of his jacket was dripping water, as if he’d just been dunked. He nodded to Benny, and then squatted down and stuffed his pipe with the tobacco. He sat down on a rock and lit up. His fingers were webbed, though it was hard to notice unless you were looking.

“And what did you want with me today, officers?” asked the old man.

“We have a complaint about stealing souls,” said Benny. “You know anything about it?”

The Vodnik rolled his eyes. They were an odd color of green, like a moss. “It ain’t me. You’ve got a Vodyanoy moving in upstream.” He gestured with his pipe. “He’s real old school.” 

“Why is he muscling in?” asked Dean.

“Says they polluted his pond, what with the drilling.”

“Sounds like my brother,” said Dean.

“How far?” asked Benny.

“Yonder up the road,” said the Vodnik, puffing on his pipe. 

“How far in _miles_?” asked Dean.

“Approximately twelve point three five,” answered the Vodnik, which caused Benny to do a double-take and Dean to burst into a grin. “As the tadpole swims.”

“Think you’re pretty smart, huh, you little shit,” said Benny as they climbed back into his heap of a truck.

“Yep,” said Dean, who was still smiling. “Ask a stupid question, I guess.”

“Never thought to ask the slimy bastards,” the vampire admitted. He coaxed the engine to life, and they took off, driving upriver. “And if I may say, it’s at least decent to see you in a not-too-damn-shitty mood.”

“Hey, watch it,” said Dean, who thought that if Benny had noticed, it was probably getting bad. “Look, it’s just … I don’t think we solved that last case. Something doesn’t sit well.”

“You ever hear from your angel?”

“Talk about cutting to the chase,” Dean grumbled. He looked out the window for a while, watching the trees pass. “No. If Crowley got him, I guess you can figure the rest.”

“Not actually. Can angels be turned into demons?”

“No idea.”

“You ask our rabbinical consultants?”

Dean mused on this for a while. Rabbi Turner at least seemed to know a bit about angels. “No. Maybe I don’t wanna know,” he finally said.

“Haven’t caught word of Crowley lately,” said Benny. “Since you bring it up.”

“That is weird,” Dean allowed. He looked out the window.

 

“I told you, Cecily, I am not to be disturbed!”

Crowley was laid out on a plush leather couch in his office, a monogrammed towel covering his face. “I am indisposed,” he added.

Cecily, who had just appeared in his office holding a sheaf of papers, set the file down on Crowley’s cluttered desk and strode over to the couch. She plucked off the towel, causing Crowley to emit a groan. “Come on, sit up.” She sat down beside him, pushing him upright as she did, and began massaging his shoulders.

“Watch the talons, woman,” Crowley scolded, but he also stretched and sighed. 

“Your knots have knots,” Cecily grunted as she applied more pressure to a sore spot. She paused to flick back a hair which had actually gotten out of place.

“No, keep going!” Crowley insisted. “For this, I will probably allow you to remain alive for at least the next twenty-four hours!”

“Just relax,” she muttered.

“I’ve used all my magic. _All_ my magic! I am spent. Like a dirty old rag.” 

Cecily was pressing deeply into the trapezius. “But the question is … did it work?”

“No idea,” Crowley admitted. “Utterly no idea.”

Somewhere down the hall, in a large guest room, lay a figure. He was not asleep. But he was not awake. He was definitely not a human. But not quite a demon either.

He was _changing_.

 

“So, what's the difference between a Vodnik and a Vodee-whatever-the-hell?”

Benny grinned as he spread tobacco on the rocks upon the shoreline. “ _Vodyanoy_. And I've only dealt with that beastie once before, so I'm no hifalutin' expert. But they're a lot more fishy.”

Dean grimaced. He wasn't a big fan of going home muddy, but even worse was reeking of fish. How he hated fucking water spirits. “Do they still like tobacco? And why the fuck do water things like to smoke?”

Benny chuckled. “You got me, brother. Now, you got the net?”

Dean held out the net. “You sure we can't get this bastard fly fishing?”

“Did you bring your waders?” asked Benny. “No? All right, then, move back outta sight.”

Dean moved back behind the truck, as it was the best cover. Benny fussed with the tobacco some more, and then brought out his own pipe, stuffed it full, and sat back to have a smoke. Dean wanted to ask if he'd brought a flask: in actuality, he probably had. After a while, Benny leaned back against a rock in the shade and pretended to doze. Dean looked on a bit enviously. It had been almost twenty minutes, and his legs were getting a little sore from staying in a crouch.

There was a funny splashing sound from the river. Dean peered over, and was surprised to see a rather large, frog-like head had emerged. Suspicious, froggy eyes stared at Benny for a time, but the vampire continued to doze. And then the green-ish figure slipped out of the water and began to assess the tobacco. It was about the size and shape of a man, dressed in wet rags. It carried a sodden backpack, which dripped water and also clanked, as if it carried a lot of glassware. The creature dropped the pack, and rummaged around inside it. Benny opened one eye, and nodded slightly.

Holding his breath, Dean crept out from behind the truck. Gripping the net, he sneaked over to the creature, and then tossed the net over its head.

It emitted a shrill croak, and struggled, trying to slip away. Dean held on tightly, though the thing did stink of fish, and Benny held up a gun. “Quit strugglin'! We just wanna talk.”

“You are wanting my souls!” the Vodyanoy wailed. “My pretty, pretty souls.”

“That's right,” said Benny. “We don't let you catch human souls in these parts. Now, just what to you got in there?” he asked, pointing to the damp backpack. “I thought I heard porcelain.”

Thankfully, the Vodyanoy quit struggling. “Nothing,” it sulked.

“What if I took a look?” The creature was still and silent. Still pointing the gun, Benny squatted down and pulled open the top flap of the pack. “Well, lookee here!” he exclaimed, reaching in and extracting a porcelain jar. “This yours?”

“Don't touch it! It is mine!” the Vodyanoy pleaded, once again twisting in the net.

“What's in the jar?” asked Benny. “It's not human, is it?”

“No, they are so pretty! They are the prettiest!”

Benny occupied himself with taking out all of the jars. He set them out on the rocks. “Look, if you tell me where the humans are, we'll let you keep the others. How about that?”

The thing grunted and twisted inside the net again. It shook, flinging murky water at Dean, who cringed. 

“Well?” asked Benny, holding up a jar.

“I tell you, and you let me go?” it asked.

“Yes. You tell us, and we let out all the humans, and we'll let you go. This time! But if we catch you again, we won't be so friendly. Now, can my partner let you go?”

The thing spat, but answered, “Yes, I tell you. I tell you.”

Benny nodded to Dean, and he finally let slip the net. The thing shook itself violently, and then padded over to its jars, its webbed feet making a slapping sound on the rocks. It pointed out one jar, and then another.

“This one and this one? And that's it?” said Benny. 

“Yes,” the thing told him. “Yes. That is it. They are pretty. So very pretty!” 

Benny opened one of the jars. The Vodyanoy emitted a moan as a bubble emerged. It drifted upwards in the wind, and then popped. Dean could've sworn he heard a woman's voice murmuring as it did. Then, to the distress of the Vodyanoy, Benny popped open the other jar. There was another bubble, and this time, a man's voice whispered as the bubble popped in the wind.

“All right. Now, you can have the rest of these back,” Benny told the creature. “As long as you swear to me they ain't human.”

“No. Fish. All fish,” sighed the Vodyanoy. It eagerly grabbed up the remaining jars and stuffed them back into its pack. “You not give us the Morena,” it told him.

“The what?” asked Dean.

“I dunno. The Morena?” asked Benny.

“You don't drown the Morena,” said the Vodyanoy. “The Marzanna? Marmora? She have many names, but is but three.”

“No fucking clue,” said Benny.

“You must to drown her. And I take the soul. Or she will ride. And death come with her.”

Dean glanced over at Benny. There was a sudden splash. The Vodyanoy was gone.

 

“Another late night?”

Sam crawled into bed with Jess, yawning, and wrapped himself around her. He muttered something.

“What was that?”

“Later night than my med student,” he muttered, his nose still in her hair.

Jess rolled over to face him, and Sam took the opportunity for a kiss. “Sam, I'm concerned, baby.”

“Mmm. Why?”

“You said you wanted to get away from that stuff.”

“What stuff?” Sam leaned an arm on the pillow. “Hey, were you awake?” he asked.

Jess ignored the question. “You were off with the rabbi, right?”

“Yeah.”

“It's just.... You said you wanted to get away from the supernatural. From what your father did.”

Sam rolled over so he was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. “I don't remember saying that.”

Jess sighed and rubbed his chest. “Life with your dad. I thought you were through with it?”

“I just wanna help Dean. He's still my brother, right?”

“If you want to spend time with your brother, then invite him over.”

Sam was silent a moment. “I didn’t think you liked him, Jess.”

Jessica shrugged. “What I think doesn’t matter. He’s family, right?”

“That's not an answer.”

The soft light lit Jess's face. She was biting her lip. “I like him OK. But I'm not sure if I like his effect on you.”

 

Dean spent an entire bar of soap scrubbing off the fish smell. When he stumbled out of the shower, he was too tired to even find his pajamas. Tossing away the towel, he slipped, still damp and quite naked, into bed, falling asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He slept fitfully, though, his dreams troubled, as they had been for the past day or so. There was something tugging at the edge of his consciousness. Someone was there, just past where he could see.

He awakened with a start, eyes wide open, and, to his horror, frozen in place. He strained, but it was as if his limbs had become suddenly weighted down.

There was someone else in the room.

He struggled to turn his head, but found the muscles simply wouldn't respond. He felt his heart pounding in his chest. 

There it was: a soft rustle, just to his right. Terrified, he espied the shadowy figure, just off to one side, just out of the range of his eyes.

The shadow edged slightly closer, and reached out a hand. Dean gasped. Slowly, gently, the bedcovers slid down, exposing him. And, just as slowly, the fear drifted away. He wanted this. Yes, he wanted the figure nearer to him. 

The hand drew away, and Dean let out a small, soft cry of disappointment. Somehow, with great, concentrated effort, he managed to arch his head back, baring his neck.

A face came into view. His eyes strained in the dim light. Right overhead, so close, so very close, but not quite touching him.

“Cas?”

Dean's eyes flew open, and he sat up in bed, panting. He whirled around, scanning the room. 

No one.

Had it been dream?

He kicked off the covers, which had gotten tangled up at his waist, and strode over to the window. He threw open the shutters and yanked up the sash, breathing hard. The night air was brisk, and it revived him. 

_Cas._

 

Nerve fibers firing. Like Christmas lights wrapping around and around and around a house. Flashing and blinking. On and off. On and off. 

Awake!

Awake … but where?

He crawled upwards, trying to get a better look. Big thing below. A bed? Yes, a bed. 

A sound, a door opening. 

A figure, scurrying in, looking at the bed, pulling the covers. Confusion.

A weird thing. 

He plunged down for a better look, a better smell, and it stared and bolted. What an odd thing. He stared after it for a time, but it didn't return.

He stared around the space again. So many bright objects! Colors and shapes. He went to a big object, stuffed with littler objects. Yes, a shelf. A book shelf. And these were books. So varied! He pulled off one, and it came open, pages and pages and pages. He dropped it on the floor and pulled out another. Musty-dusty. And more pages and words and words. How many words? Words in books in bookshelves in rooms?

“Ah, rearranging the furniture?”

A new smell! No, two new smells. He dashed over to greet the new visitors. A short male demon, standing in front of a female demon. A rich and dark smell, like an aged wine. 

How did he know wines? But he did.

“Think maybe we should get you some clothing first?”

“Aw, why do we have to do that, boss?” asked the female. Her eyes were darting up and down, taking in his form. Her mouth was curled into a small smile. His form pleased her. 

“Cecily. Quit leering and go fetch some clothes.”

“Yes, boss,” said the female, who blinked out.

“All rightie, we'll get that sorted, and then get some food in you. Are you hungry. Oh!”

Castiel was very close to him now, drinking in the smell, the sound of his breath, his heart beating. It was all so fascinating. The heart was beating at a slightly elevated rate, breathing rapid, skin... He grabbed a hand to stare at the wrist. Yes, a slight moistening of the skin. A measure of fear. Interesting!

“I asked if you were hungry,” said the demon, gently pulling away his hand. “You are still capable of speech, aren't you?”

Castiel considered this proposition. “Food. Yes,” he said. Wasn't it obvious?

Cecily had blinked back with a pile of clothes. “I still say it's a shame,” she said, shaking her head. “Like throwing a tarp over David.”

“You. Out,” said Crowley, grabbing the clothing from her. She smirked and once again blinked out. Crowley put the clothing on the bed. “Do you require assistance? I could call a servant. A more _professional_ servant, that is.”

Castiel pored over the clothing. So soft to the touch, and a light smell of detergent and fabric softeners. This was nicer than the clothing he remembered wearing before. Before? Silk boxers, cool to the touch. He pulled them on, and then regarded the fine linen shirt that had been laid out.

“How do you feel?” asked Crowley.

“What am I?” asked Castiel, who was pulling on a pair of trousers. He paused. Zipper, then button.

Crowley had picked up a belt. He handed it over. “Well, I'll admit, I don't really know.”

“This?” asked Castiel, pointing to a red, ragged scar along his side. 

“Do you remember? You were reportedly doing an heroic bit, and ended up bitten by something. I still don't have any idea what.”

“You tried to make me a demon?” The eyes flashed.

Crowley did not bat an eyelash. “You were dying. And now, you are alive. You're welcome.”

A slight smile traced Castiel's features, and he drew back, slightly. Crowley was definitely evincing fear, but strove not to let it affect his behavior. It was an interesting reaction.

The fine linen shirt was offered, and Castiel donned it, slowly fixing up the buttons. He was sensing another reaction from the demon. Ah! The female was not the only one attracted to him. “Why didn't you let me die?”

“Because you're going to help me,” Crowley said, a bit too quickly. There were socks, and shoes to deal with now. Castiel sat down on the bed, lingering on the shoes. The smell of leather was lovely. He imagined the cobbler, bending over his work. “I want to find what it was that attacked you. It's still out there. Despite the bumbling of the police officers.”

Suddenly, Castiel was all attention. The policemen? Yes, the policemen. “Winchester,” he said simply.

Crowley frowned. “Let's all sit down for a nice dinner, shall we? And then we may discuss matters in a polite and professional manner.” He straightened Castiel's collar, and then ventured out into the hallway, heading down towards where, one supposed, there was a dining room.

Castiel paused in the doorway. He scented the cooking of food, but so much else! A carnival of sights and sounds and smells assaulted him, swirling around. He swam in it for a while, trailing after Crowley, but stopping to examine wall hangings and the many interesting lanterns and....

“Castiel.”

Castiel stopped. He straightened. He was looking at Crowley, who was currently upside-down. “I might suggest we should confine our walking to the floor, as opposed to the ceiling.”

“Why?” asked Castiel, new shoes firmly planted on the ceiling.

“Because it tends to alarm people. And we do not want that, do we?”

Castiel stared for a while, and then dropped down, landing, cat-like, on his feet. 

“There, that's better,” said Crowley, taking his arm. He pointed his cane down the hallway. “And now let's see about that dinner, shall we?”

 

“Morena?” asked Sam.

_“Morena, Marzanna, banana-fana,”_ said Dean over the phone. _“Something like that. Know what it is?”_

Sam checked to make sure Jess was still asleep, and then gently closed the bedroom door and, rubbing his eyes, tip-toed out into the living room. “No clue,” he said, yawning.

_“Can you ask your study buddies?”_

“I wasn't gonna go over today, but yeah.” Sam picked up a clock, shaking his head at the time.

_“Also, you know anything that's supposed to, you know, give you sorta bad dreams?”_

“What do you mean, sort of bad?”

_“What I said, sorta bad. I mean, you're sorta scared shitless, but maybe also … turned on?”_

“What? Are you confusing reality with porn again?”

_“Can you look into it?”_

“Yeah, yeah, I'll definitely have my friend the rabbi look into your erotic dreams, Dean.”

_“Eh, I'm sure your buddy Rufus has heard worse in confession.”_

“Uh, I don't think they- Oh, never mind.” Sam hung up the phone, and then lobbed it onto the coffee table. He stretched and yawned and thought of going back to sleep, but then reached over and flipped open his laptop. “Marzanna,” he muttered, scouring the web, thinking vaguely about making coffee. Sometime later, he glanced up when a coffee cup was placed down beside him. “Hey, Jess, you read my mind.”

Jessica sat on the arm of the couch and rifled a hand through Sam's hair. “Hey, you're already showered?” he asked.

“Gotta go. And I think you gotta go soon too!” she told him. 

“Oh, shit, what's the time?”

“You're on the computer and you don't know the time,” she sighed, rising and shaking her head. “Try and get to class today, all right, your honor?”

“You got it, Doc!” said Sam, distractedly waving the coffee cup at her, and going right back to staring at the computer.

 

“Who's Daddy's boy? Who's Daddy's evil boy?” Crowley indulgently scratched his enormous hellhound behind the ears as the thing panted, its tongue lolling out, red eyes excited. He grabbed the stick it was holding in its mouth and lobbed it across the field. “Fetch, Ratchet,” he said, and the hound took off gleefully running.

“Hellhounds play?” asked Castiel, who was staring at something. It seemed to be his favorite new hobby, those intense stares. 

“Of course they do. What did you figure?”

“I was not aware of this fact,” said the angel. Former angel. Present … who knew what? 

“Have you found anything useful? The two of us: we're probably not welcome here at Zizkov.”

“There is another presence here. Beyond the golem.”

“Oh, that's useful.”

Castiel straightened up, though he was still staring at the interlaced girders that comprised the bare skeleton of a building. “More powerful.”

“Ah! Now that is interesting.” There was the sound of barking. “Ratchet! What has gotten into you?” he yelled.

“We have company,” said Castiel.

“Oh, thank you for telling me,” snapped Crowley. He strode across the field. “I would be pleased if you did not shoot my dog, Officer Winchester.”

Dean had his gun out. His brother was standing behind him, and both were looking around nervously. “Then call off your damned hellhound, Crowley!” 

Crowley emitted a low whistle. 

“Where is it?” asked Dean, peering around.

“I’ll give you a hint: not where you’re pointing that firearm.” Crowley patted the large beast on the head. “And may I ask what you are doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” said Dean, holstering the gun. “Since technically you’re trespassing.”

“So you're here on official business? _That_ is definitely not your partner,” said Crowley, pointing to Sam. “Taller, and fewer teeth.”

“I’m Sam Winchester,” said the same. “And you’re Mr. Crowley?”

Crowley's smile was full of teeth. “Ah, obviously the polite Winchester.”

“And…. You have a hellhound?” Sam asked.

“Cas?” said Dean, who had quite suddenly become distracted upon recognizing his friend. The angel was standing in back of Crowley, but now the intent stare was directed at Dean. “Are you…. Are you…?”

Castiel was quite suddenly standing directly before Dean. He was silent for a long moment, raising a hand, as if longing to touch Dean’s face. But then he abruptly lowered his hand. “I assure you, I am much recovered, Dean Winchester.”

Dean found himself at loss for words. Cas was himself, but he also seemed different somehow. He stood up straighter, and was not wearing his eyeglasses. “I was- _We_ were worried. We hadn’t heard-“

“I received a wound. Mr. Crowley has offered me what assistance he can.”

“Saved your bloody life,” Crowley muttered. “Oi! You know, you’re likely to lose a hand that way!” he called to Sam, who was reaching tentatively out towards where he thought the hellhound might be. Castiel stepped over, grabbed Sam’s hand, yanked it up about two feet, and set it on Ratchet’s head. 

“Oh!” said Sam, who began to wiggle his fingers, as if scratching something. “Hey, boy!”

“How do you even know he's a boy?” Crowley grumbled.

“The dog is male,” said Castiel, squatting down to pick up a stick. He handed it over to an obviously entranced Sam. Sam waved the stick at the invisible (to him) dog, and then tossed it away. There was the soft sound of thumping paws.

“My brother is playing with an imaginary dog,” sighed Dean. Though he gaped when the stick came back, hovering some feet off the ground, and Castiel quietly whispered something to Sam.

“My dog is quite real,” Crowley insisted.

“What are you _really_ doing here?” Dean asked him.

“Undoubtedly the same as you,” the demon told him. “There was some other force behind the golem attack. I would like to winnow it out. And I am utilizing your friend, while I still can.”

Dean turned, suddenly unnerved. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

Crowley sighed, his voice now softer, that it would not be overhead by Castiel and Sam. “The wound was grievous. Beyond my powers of healing. I have stopped its progress by utilizing what magic I have.”

“So Cas is a demon now?”

“I don’t know, frankly. He is no doubt too much demon for his angelic friends. It is also probable that my cure will not last-“

“Does Cas know?”

“Yes. So we’ve a limited amount of time to isolate, as you say, the perpetrator.”

“Damn. So we- Hey, Sammy!” Dean rushed over to where his brother was now lying flat on his back on the ground. Castiel stood nearby, a vague smile on his face.

“I think he likes me, Dean!” yelled Sam, as his face somehow magically became smeared with what was apparently hellhound drool.

“Ratchet!” called Crowley. “Stop that! You’ll ruin your reputation.”

The dog having apparently retreated, Dean reached out a hand and helped his brother off the ground. “Hey, if you ever have puppies….” Sam told Crowley.

“You think Jess wants you to bring home an enormous invisible dog?” asked Dean.

“We’re gonna move from the apartment!”

“He's not riding in the back of my car.” Dean turned to Crowley. “Have you guys got anything useful to share?” 

Crowley nodded towards Cas. “Mr. Andělé appears to think there is something more powerful than a golem that is ultimately responsible for these matters.”

“More powerful than a golem?” said Dean, remembering, with a shiver, the night they confronted the creature. It was like a brick wall come alive. 

“A nature god of some kind,” Castiel explained. “Though I’m not aware of any in this locality that would fit its characteristics.”

“Oh, you mean like Morena?” asked Sam. 

Castiel's eyes went wide. “What do you know of Marzanna?” he asked Sam.

“It's kind of a long story. Benny and I busted a Vodyanoy upriver,” Dean told them.

“You mean a Vodnik?” asked Castiel.

Dean wrinkled his nose. “No. _Vodyanoy_. Believe me, my clothes still reek.”

“You can’t trust those things,” said Crowley, who was scowling.

“Says the demon. Anyway, he mentioned a Morena. He seemed really insistent about it, so I had Sammy do some digging around.”

“The Marzanna are not native here,” Castiel told Sam. “But I know of them. From the south. They are the bringers of death and disease. Some say they are the very embodiment of death.”

“There's a rich folk tradition about them there,” said Sam, obviously warming to the topic. “A whole village will get together and burn them in effigy each spring. And then they drown the ashes.”

“They gotta burn _and_ drown it?” Dean asked. “Sounds like it could be your powerful creature, Cas.”

“I've been researching with Rufus and Bobby – I mean, Rabbi Turner and Father Singer – but they don't have a lot of stuff available, since she's not really been seen locally,” Sam told them.

“I wonder if she was forced downriver, like the Vodyanoy?” said Dean. Castiel was staring at the ground. He had gone very quiet and thoughtful.

“I do have an expert, er, at my disposal,” said Crowley.

“Bring 'em on!” said Dean.

“You realize, Officer Winchester, this would be completely … unofficial. You might want to leave your vampire at home.”

“Then I'll come along with Dean instead,” said Sam.

“You will?” asked his brother. “Don't you have class?”

Sam snorted. “I can get notes. We need some answers.”

“ _We_?” said Dean.

 

Dean fully realized Crowley was capable of transporting himself across space though his magic, so he was surprised when he had been asked to pick him up in his car for the drive out to meet their still mysterious source of information.

“Seems like old times,” he told Sam, who was sitting on the passenger side, engrossed in a book.

“In Dad's car, going to pick up a demon and an angel to go see a witch?” said Sam, with a wry smile on his face. “Uh, yeah, actually, it does.”

Dean gazed over at his brother. The unfinished thought was that Sam did not consider it a happy memory. He couldn't wait to get away from the “family business” to start college upon receiving the good news of his scholarship. They hadn't spoken much while Dean attended the Police Academy: it was almost like a betrayal when he joined the Tajemny. But recently, after their father's death, they had begun speaking again. Dean credited Jess's softening influence. But he had not expected Sam to jump so eagerly into this case. 

Crowley stood at the front of his residence, two figures beside him. There was an efficient looking brunette holding a clipboard, and Cas, who looked as downcast as he had been the other day. Strange: the angel actually appeared healthier now that he was in Crowley's care, as he was well fed and rested. And he was no longer wearing his eyeglasses, so you could see his clear, blue eyes. But something about the Morena had set him off, and his mood was still dark.

“I am departing now, Cecily,” Crowley was telling his assistant as Dean got out of the car. “Hold my calls.”

“You got it boss,” she said brightly. She grinned at Dean. “Hey, Officer, take care of my angel!” And then she winked out.

“Oh, and not a word about your beloved lord and master,” Crowley cracked. He turned a jaundiced eye towards Sam and Dean. “We will drive to a location, and then we will have to make our way part way on foot.”

“Some kind of warding?” Sam guessed.

“Of a very powerful kind. This, ahem, entity needs to be very aware of which guests are in and out of her domain.”

Dean's eyebrow shot up at that last remark. He didn't suppose the angels would take too kindly to a being with such power. He glanced at Cas, but the angel kept his eyes towards the ground.

“Hey, I wanted to pick your brain a little about this Enochian text,” Sam told Cas. Dean frowned now: he had thought Sam had been poring over a textbook. His brother was full of surprises these days.

“I will be pleased to assist you,” said Cas, a mild smile on his face. “Enochian has many … arcane expressions.”

“Great!” said Sam, wriggling his long legs into the back. Cas followed him, leaving Dean seated up front with the demon. 

“The directions will be a bit arcane,” Crowley told him as he slid into the passenger seat. “It might seem that at times I am requesting that you double back. Be assured that I have traveled these roads countless times.”

“Sounds good,” said Dean, uttering a silent prayer of thanks that, if he was going to spend his day at the mercy of a demon, at least he had an angel in the back seat. He listened as Cas read some lines from Sam's book. He didn't understand the language, but the words sounded strangely moving. “What is that?” he asked.

“Enochian,” Crowley answered.

“Oh,” said Dean. “I mean, it sounds different.” Of course he knew a little of the language: everybody who used magic knew at least one Enochian charm.

“You've got a full blooded angel speaking it,” said Crowley. Dean could see from the corner of his eye that the demon was studying him.

“Full-blooded?” asked Dean.

“You didn't think there would be mixes?” asked Crowley. 

Dean considered this. He and Benny had had to deal with any number of half-demons. They didn't tend to feel at home either in the world of humans or demons, so sadly, a lot of them ended up in some sort of trouble. “I just thought angels kept to themselves.”

“Then, you don't know angels.”

As Crowley had warned, the route wound into a remote area, and then up and down and seemingly all over the place. Dean's sense of direction, which was usually nearly infallible, screamed at him that he was driving in circles, but he also noticed that the landscape changed slightly with each repetition. They were, somehow, making some kind of progress. But Crowley had also been right in saying that the person they were visiting did not want visitors.

And then the road ended. Dean turned around a bend he'd already taken six or seven times at least, and almost ran the car right into the forest.

“Here is where we walk,” said Crowley.

“Yeah, thanks for thethe warning,” said Dean.

“I apologize, but this part changes slightly each time.”

“Then how do you know where you're going?”

“I know,” said Crowley firmly. He pointed with is cane, and then began to walk off as if he didn't give a hang whether or not they followed him. They headed up a heavily wooded path, and almost immediately lost sight of the car, Crowley walking ahead, Sam following him, and Dean and Cas bringing up the rear. 

“I've got a funny feeling from this place,” Dean told Cas.

“You're sensitive to the magic,” said Castiel. 

“You mean not everybody can feel it?” asked Dean.

“No. Not many humans are so attuned. You are special, Dean Winchester.”

“Hey, I told you, I'm just Dean, right?” Dean didn't know why the angel had become more formal, but he didn't like it.

Castiel actually chuckled softly. “You are hardly, 'just Dean,'” he quipped. Dean smiled, and he was glad he was walking in back, as he could feel his cheeks flushing, and didn't want Sam to catch a glance.

“Almost there,” called Crowley, when they walked by a spot exactly like a whole lot of other spots they'd just walked through. But it was true, Dean could feel the something getting stronger. The path suddenly cleared, and they were standing at the foot of a hut that was itself standing up on four great, thick chicken legs. Crowley tapped his cane once, twice, three times on a flagstone, and the legs bent: first the front, and then the back ones, bringing the house down to ground level.

The door opened. There was a pair of disembodied, gloved hands in the doorway, one gripping the knob, the other waving them in. “Gentlemen,” said Crowley. He nodded his head, and then headed inside. Sam shrugged at Dean, and followed him, and then Dean and Cas.

The hands closed the door, there was a small creak, and the hut rose up once again, although somehow, there was absolutely no jostling around inside. Dean went to a window and looked out: they were many meters up above the trees now. He wasn't sure how they hadn't spotted this hut on the way up, but guessed it must have been some kind of warding. Whoever they were seeing had them trapped.

A door opened, and he turned. A very old woman entered the room, hair in a long, grey braid that trailed down her back, blue eyes bright. Crowley leaned down, and she kissed him on his cheek. 

“Hello, Mum,” said Crowley.


	6. Chapter 6

They were gathered around the living room drinking tea that Crowley's mother – her name, they found, was Ježibaba – had insisted they drink. She had also baked some delicious little pastries: indeed, the smell of cooking permeated the house. Dean had imagined a witch's house might smell of cabbage, or maybe like a charnel house. But it was actually quite nice, like a mix of vanilla and cloves.

They sat in on cozy couches, with a view of the forest below and beyond. As it turned out, there were several sets of disembodied hands that did chores for Ježibaba. Dean soon got used to it, and nodded in acknowledgment when a hand offered him a cloth napkin. 

“Mmm. Marzanna. One of the more powerful of my sisters. Yes. She may have fled from her home ground. It's difficult times for a lot of us. Difficult times. Your brethren have made sure of that, Brother Andělé.”

Castiel had a china plate of pastries on his knee. He'd been picking at them, in a desultory manner. “I am truly sorry,” he muttered. 

“How do we get rid of her?” said Sam, who was sipping his tea. “If that's who this is. This is delicious, by the way. Do you have any bigger cups?”

Ježibaba nodded, and the efficient gloved hands poured a bit more tea into his cup, and stirred in a bit of honey. “Like so many things, it is so easy, but difficult. Yes, that is the way of things.”

“How do we catch her?” asked Dean, wiping pastry crumbs from his pants and feeling a bit impatient. He didn't like riddles, and Cas's dark mood was getting contagious.

“There is no need. No need! You bring them together. Build the fire. Say the words. So simple! And yet, not so.”

“Mum, speak simply, dear,” urged Crowley, who had actually taken off his dark glasses in his mother's presence. 

“You must turn out the village,” she said. “One of five? One of four? Fetch us the spell books,” she told a set of servant hands. 

The hands returned, dumping a couple of large books onto Sam’s lap. He grunted, and then opened the book. “Oh, yeah, one of seven,” he muttered.

“Wait, one of every seven people in the entire city?” asked Dean.

“You need to read closely,” said Crowley. “They usually only count magic-users in these things.”

“That’s still a big head count,” said Dean.

“We’ve had a lot of people turn out recently for, uh, events,” said Sam.

“Marzanna’s roots grow strong,” Ježibaba told them. 

“And this will get rid of her for good?” asked Dean.

“Oh, no, dear, you misunderstand. This is how she is meant to be. She will come back, and then be set afire again. This is the way of things. The cycle. The trouble comes when you break the cycle.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas blurted.

“My dear one, you could not prevent what happened to my sister,” said Ježibaba.

Castiel looked up. To Dean's astonishment, his face was tear-stained. “He’s bleeding!” Dean said, noticing the bloodstain on Cas’s side. He sat down next to Cas, and his hands went to the angel’s side. He felt the blood on his fingers.

“Dean, be careful!” shouted Crowley.

And then Dean was falling and falling. 

The light was so bright: at first, he was blinded. And then it began, slowly, to resolve. He was in a large, white room. It was featureless, except for the pathetic figure slumped at one side. It took Dean a moment to recognize him. “Cas!” he called. He tried to move, but it was like his feet were cemented to the floor. 

Castiel was chained up by a pair of silver clamps hanging from the ceiling: they were fixed around his wrists, which were terribly scarred and bruised. His was bloodied, and looked as if he has suffered many beatings. His shirt had been reduced to ribbons, and he was barefooted. “Cas,” Dean tried again, but he wasn’t certain whether the angel was unresponsive, or he simply couldn’t hear. It was as if he was seeing him through a thin, white mist.

A door opened somewhere, and there were more people in the room. There were three of them: a stern-looking woman in a business suit, surrounded by two men, also in suits. She strode up to Cas and glared at him for a moment. “Take him down,” she said. One man brought a chair, and the other unlocked the clamps. Castiel half-fell into the chair as the two men stood by his side. “Castiel,” said the woman. He did not respond, so one of the men grabbed his hair and yanked his face up so he was looking at the woman.

“Naomi,” Castiel breathed. So he was alive at least. Dean was frightened and confused, but decided to listen. 

“You still think you did nothing wrong.”

Castiel nodded. And then, with more strength than Dean would have imagined, managed to say, “I have done nothing wrong. I have acted … like an angel.”

At that last phrase, Naomi, who was looking on placidly, frowned, though just for a second. “Bring her in,” she told the men. One of them nodded and left. He came back hauling an old woman by the scruff of her neck. She looked familiar, and Dean realized that she resembled Ježibaba – she could have been a sister. She was gagged, and a pair of bright grey eyes looked pleadingly around the room.

“No,” said Cas, who evidently recognized the woman. He started to get up – Dean didn't think he was in any shape to walk – but the man by his side was suddenly holding a blade to his throat. Dean recognized it: it was a replica of the blade he'd seen Cas use. 

Angels. These people – at least the ones in suits – were other angels.

“She's done nothing wrong,” rasped Cas.

“And what about you?” asked Naomi.

Castiel paused. The man now had a blade at the old woman's neck. Dean wondered if she was an angel as well.

“Castiel,” said Naomi. Castiel hesitated. The man holding the old woman jerked, and a think rivulet of blood trickled down her neck.

“No, don't!” Castiel pleaded.

“Castiel.”

He slumped. “I was wrong,” he whispered.

“Say that again.”

“I was wrong,” he repeated, his voice trembling.

“Good. Now that that's understood.” Naomi turned to the man. “Kill the witch.”

“No!” Castiel screamed. The neck was slit, and the old woman lolled, turned in an instant from a woman to a sack of old clothing.

Dean shot up, and found many hands holding him down. “No!” It was him yelling, not Cas.

“Dean!” said Sam, who was hovering above the couch, holding his shoulders, his face traced in worry.

“What the hell?” said Dean, his eyes darting around the room. They were still in Ježibaba's living room. The house was warm, and still smelled of cooking. 

Crowley was standing in back, one eyebrow arched. “The angel blood set him off, I reckon.”

“Angel blood?” asked Dean.

“You were in his mind, right?”

“Dean!” Dean turned to the sound of Castiel's voice. He had just come out of another room along with Ježibaba. His shirt was unbuttoned, and it looked like he had a fresh bandage wrapped around his chest. He rushed to Dean's side. “I'm sorry! I am so sorry.”

“It wasn't your fault,” said Dean.

“It was.”

“He'll be just fine,” said Ježibaba, placing a withered hand on Dean's forehead. Her hands were warm, and surprisingly soft. “You'll both be just fine. Now, you'll change the dressing when you get home, won't you?” she asked Castiel.

“Yes,” he told her. “Yes, I will follow your instructions to the letter. Thank you.”

She was waving to her helping hands. They forced a teacup into Dean's hands and he accepted it. “Drink deep!” she ordered. This tea was stronger than the one she'd been serving before, and very milky.

“Mmm,” said Dean, who immediately felt more alert. “Is this medicine?”

“English breakfast tea,” laughed Crowley. “That'll set you back on your feet.”

Ježibaba slapped Crowley on the back of his head. “Ow!” he protested.

“Old remedies are the best,” she said. “Now, you will take the angel home. He will rest.”

“You OK to drive?” Sam asked. He sat down on the couch opposite of Dean, next to a rather large stack of books. A pair of hands was bringing out several more.

“Yeah,” said Dean, who stood up. “You ready to go?”

“I was gonna hang out and go through some of these books,” Sam told him. “You'll phone Jess for me?”

“You … sure that's a good idea?” Dean asked, sweeping his eyes around the room. He didn't want to be impolite, as the old lady had been nothing but kind to them, but he was uncertain about leaving his little brother with a witch.

“I will escort the boy home. Personally,” said Crowley. He spat in his right hand, and then extended it. “And I keep my agreements.”

“My son keeps his word. He does,” said Ježibaba, who nevertheless gave Crowley another knock on the back of the head. 

Dean hesitated, but, at last, took the demon's hand. He actually felt a slight buzz when he shook, as if from static electricity. Magic, he thought. “Will I be able to find my way home? Or even back to the car?”

“We will find your car,” said Crowley. He pointed, and Dean turned towards the window. The forest was now rushing past, as the hut was galloping along on its chicken legs, although once again, there was no sense of movement or jostling of any kind inside the hut: it was like watching something on television or a movie screen. And then, just as suddenly, it all halted. The trees suddenly loomed over them. Dean felt a sense of vertigo, and gripped the arm of a chair. He looked at Crowley, who was grinning. 

A pair of helping hands opened the front door, and Dean was astonished to see his car parked right outside. “I gotta admit, this is pretty sweet,” he told Ježibaba, who smiled.

“I must not tarry here. Please take your friend. The road will welcome you,” she told him. Dean and Castiel got into the car and departed. Dean marveled as the road, true to her words, seemed a lot straighter now in this direction.

“You think Sammy will be OK there?” he asked Castiel after they had traveled a few miles in silence. “I mean, with a demon and a witch?”

“Your brother will be unharmed, as Crowley promised. The demon is … surprising in some ways. Though I admit I have little experience with his kind.”

Dean watched the road in silence for a while. “And … you’re doing OK? That bite you got…”

“Is probably fatal, yes.”

Dean nearly ran off the road. “No, Cas, that can’t be!”

Castiel shrugged. “Crowley’s magic has stalled the process.” He ran a hand over his side. “And Ježibaba’s magic will aid in my longevity. But I do not dare to hope.”

“Well, I’m gonna dare to hope! We’ll find a cure, you’ll be good. Right? Right?”

“In many ways, I have as little experience with humans as I do with demons. You are requesting that I lie now?”

Dean didn’t really know what to say. “You’re … annoying, you know that?” The angel only smiled slightly. 

The car drove on. “So what happened?” Dean finally asked. “I mean, with Naomi.” He heard Castiel sigh, and turned his head. “Look, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I’m pretty sure those were other angels, weren’t they?”

Castiel took a long time to answer. “Yes, they were angels. That was…. That was my greatest failure.”

“What did you do?”

“I showed mercy.”

“OK, that’s not sounding like a failure here.” He glanced over to meet Castiel’s eyes. “Come on. Talk to me.”

Castiel spoke haltingly. “I…. My former duty was in the south. I was there during…. During the uprising.”

“The angels came down pretty hard on that one.”

“It was thought, for a while, that we would be driven from the country.”

“They blamed the demons.”

“It wasn’t the demons,” said Cas. “Or rather, it was humans, and demons, and witches and vampires….” 

“That’s not what I had heard.”

Cas was gazing out the window, watching the forest rush by. “That is what you heard because that’s what we wanted you to hear. We angels.” He paused for a long moment. “During the aftermath of the uprising, I was working on a case. One of my brothers had been murdered.”

“Wow, that sounds like a big deal.”

“It was. My kind, we are difficult to kill. Although it may be done,” Cas added, self-consciously rubbing his side. “I collected evidence and followed many leads. My prime suspect, as it turned out, was a witch.”

“Let me guess: the one I saw down in that dungeon with you?”

“The white room?”

“It was pretty white. But it seemed creepy, like a dungeon.”

Castiel gazed at Dean for a while. “It’s interesting that you say that. At any rate, I interviewed the woman. I firmly believe that she was guilty of the crime.”

“So … you arrested her.”

Castiel was quiet for a time, gazing out the window again. After a time, Dean wondered if he had nodded off. But finally, he spoke again, his voice soft and low. “Do you know what he had been doing, my murdered brother?”

“No.”

“He raped and murdered several children. Human children.”

“God damn!” 

They drove for a while, the only sound the tires on the road and the steady hum of the engine. “Sounds like the asshole deserved to die,” Dean finally said.

“I came to a similar conclusion. My colleagues, however, disagreed. As you witnessed. Somehow – I still don't know how – a group of vigilantes, including humans, possibly demons, and the witch you saw – hunted down my brother and ended him. When I realized what they had done, and more importantly why they had done it, I immediately destroyed all of my notes, and told my brother and sister angels I had failed.”

“But they found her.”

“Yes, somehow, they found her, and went about trying to convince me of the error of my ways.”

“But they failed, didn't they?”

For the first time since he had reappeared, Cas actually smiled. It was a small smile, but Dean found it filled him with warmth. “Yes, I suppose they did,” the angel told him.

 

The helping hands set down yet another plate of pastries.

“Guys! I'm stuffed!” laughed Sam, who nevertheless grabbed another little cake, and hunched back over his book. 

“You seem to have gotten used to my mother's … assistants,” observed Crowley, who was standing in the doorway. 

The cabin, along with being mobile, seemed a lot bigger on the inside than the outside. Sam had relocated to some kind of library that was either upstairs or downstairs (for some reason, he wasn't exactly certain which) and had been poring over Ježibaba's old volumes for some time while the hands occasionally swept in with tea or snacks. “Are you kidding? Books and food? I'm in heaven.” He frowned, as if realizing who he was speaking to.

“I never really grew accustomed to it,” said Crowley, who entered the room. “My servants are uniformly corporeal.”

“Demons?” asked Sam.

Crowley slid back a chair and sat down opposite Sam. “Yes. It is what I am.”

“Soooo, what can you tell me about the demon uprising? The one down south?”

“Oh. Is that what they're calling it now?” asked Crowley, casually taking up a pastry.

Sam set his pad of paper aside. “They said they shut down the city.”

“And because I'm a demon, of course I know everything about everything,” said Crowley. Sam continued to look on eagerly. “Oh, turn off those puppy dog eyes! All right, all right, what specifically did you require, young Mr. Rebel?”

“It wasn't just you guys, was it?”

Crowley placed his pastry back down on a napkin and brushed crumbs off his hands. “It consisted of everyone who was disenchanted with our angelic overlords. Which, yes, if you'd like me to characterize it, pretty much everyone. Of all races. Including, apparently, some sorts like your brother's friend.”

“How did you mobilize everybody?” 

“I'll attest to you, young man, I didn't do a damned thing worth mentioning.”

“What about things you did that weren't worth mentioning?”

“You are studying law, then?”

“Don't change the subject.”

Crowley interlaced his fingers. “You will be a formidable attorney. You realize, here, that you are treading upon dangerous ground?”

“I'm in a witch's hut up on chicken legs chatting with a demon. How much more dangerous can it get?”

“When we include our friends, the angels, fairly dangerous. But since you asked....”

 

Dean and Cas had were approaching the city. “Am I taking you back to Crowley’s, or…?”

“My apartment? If you don’t mind?”

Dean frowned, thinking of all those stairs. Be he was relieved not to drive to Crowley’s again. Despite Cas’s assurances, he still didn’t quite trust the demon. 

After he climbed the six flights, Dean used the excuse to come into Castiel’s apartment and sit down on the couch for a while. “It seems stuffy in here,” he said.

Castiel had opened the double doors to the balcony. “I actually haven’t been back since….”

“So, you’ve been with Crowley all this time?”

Castiel nodded. He returned from the doors and picked up the package he’d dropped on the table containing the new bandages Ježibaba had given him. “We're supposed to change that dressing, right?” said Dean.

“Yes.”

“All right then,” said Dean, removing his jacket. 

“What are you doing?” Castiel asked.

“I'm here – I'm gonna help you.”

“That will not be necessary.”

“C'mon Cas, don't be a baby. We need to change your bandages.”

Castiel bristled. “I am hardly an infant! Especially as compared to a- to a human!”

“Yeah.” Dean had heard stories of long-lived angels: some were reputed to be centuries old. “Exactly how old are you, Cas?”

The angel paused, and for an uncomfortably long time. Finally, he said, “Thirty-nine.”

Dean had to sit down again, he was laughing so hard. Castiel was beet red, glaring out the opened doors. “Come on, man, don't sweat it. It's no crime to be young. You're older than me, right? And you're gonna live to be a lot older,” he added, though he wondered if it was for the angel, or for himself. “Let's get you patched up.”

He wasn't certain if Castiel had accepted his apology, but at last, he doffed his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair, and then began to unbutton his shirt. Dean opened up the new package of bandages. “Scissors?” asked Dean. Castiel looked uncertain, and then gestured towards a drawer. Grabbing the scissors from a junk drawer, Dean sat down on the couch next to the angel and cut through the gauze wrapped around Castiel's chest. The wound still looked fresh, and there were small, grim black marks winding away from it. “That's nasty,” said Dean. “It definitely looks magical. I've gotten some bad ones myself.”

“Really?” asked Cas, who seemed genuinely curious. 

Dean shrugged and grinned. “I'll show you mine, I guess.” He pulled up his shirt to reveal a long scar across one side of his belly. “Werewolf scratch.”

Cas traced a curious hand along Dean's stomach. “But you weren't cursed?”

“No, we got me to a witch doctor soon enough. But I still don't like dogs!” Cas's hand lingered on him. It was soft and cool. 

He was so near, his skin pale in the moonlight. Dean closed the distance between them, and kissed him, briefly, softly.

Cas looked up at him, dark lashes fluttering. “Dean, if my life is to be a brief one-”

“Don't talk that way, OK?”

“I don't want to regret you.”

Dean wasn't sure what he meant, but he put down the scissors and slid his hands around the angel's waist, and kissed him again. Cas's eyes closed, and he returned the kiss, sweet and burning.

Being careful of his injured side, Dean pressed him down, and climbed on top of him. He kissed him, running a hand up his thigh. Cas muttered his name, and Dean, craving more contact, tugged on Cas's leg, pulling it so it wrapped around him. 

Dean pulled back, staring into Cas's eyes. “Are you going back to Crowley's?”

Castiel looked pained, his forehead creased in worry. “Yes. Yes, I should.”

“Then I want him to smell me on you. All over you. I want him to know you're mine.”

The eyes widened. “I'm- I'm already yours, Dean.”

Dean smiled, but Castiel wriggled out from beneath him. He extended a hand. “Come here,” he said. Dean came off the couch, and Castiel led him off, to the bedroom. The door shut.

On the coffee table, Dean's cell phone began to ring.

 

“You walked him home from school? No kidding?”

“Cecily.” Crowley glared at his assistant, but as usual, she only smirked back. “Remind me again why I don’t smite you. Here and now?”

“So you brought the little bitty Winchester back home. Did you tuck him in?”

“Cecily!”

“Boss, I hate to tell you, but since you hooked up with that pouty-lipped angel, you’ve gone soft.”

Crowley sniffed the air. “Where is he, by the way?”

“Haven’t seen him.”

“What do you mean, you haven't seen him? The policeman drove him home, hours ago.”

“Whose home?” inquired Cecily with a mocking smile.

 

“You're defeating my purpose, angel,” said Dean, stepping into the shower.

“I didn't want to wake you,” said Cas as Dean wrapped his arms around him underneath the warm water. They shared a soft, lingering kiss. “You had drifted off to sleep. You drove a long way.”

“What time is it? Wait!” Dean covered Cas's mouth with a finger. “Don't tell me. Hey, I'm just gonna have to dirty you up again.” He turned the angel around and pushed him up against the wall, kissing his neck. He pressed his feet between Cas's, parting his legs, pushing soapy fingers into him. “You like me inside you?” he murmured.

“You couldn't tell?” asked Cas, looking over his shoulder, his eyes wide and blue. “I highly desire sexual relations with you. What?”

Dean had to stop what he was doing and huff a laugh. “Sorry, sorry,” he muttered.

“What is it? Did I do something wrong?”

Dean gathered him in his arms. “Don't ever change, all right? Just don't ever change.” He let his hands slip down, groping Cas's firm ass. “C'mon, let's get to those sexual relations.” He started to turn Cas around again, but Cas stood still.

“I like to be facing you. Like this.”

“I dunno if we can do that,” said Dean. He looked down, shifting his feet. The floor wasn't too slippery. “I guess we can try, what the hell? Hop up and wrap your legs- Oh!” 

The shower stall was narrow. Cas had hopped up, pressing his back against one wall, and resting his feet against a bar on the opposite side. “Holy hell, you should join the circus,” said Dean, pressing into him.

“I'm very flexible!” Cas volunteered.

“We'll make a note of that,” Dean laughed softly. He once again gripped Cas's bottom, and began to push inside him. Hearing Cas moan in his ear, he pushed harder. Cas jerked and sighed, and Dean felt fingernails digging into his back. “Like that?”

“Like.... That,” Cas muttered, his eyes rolling upwards.

Dean grinned and pushed inside, slowly at first, then again and again, getting into a rhythm. Cas was so slick and so tight. He was either gonna have the best orgasm of his life, or they'd both come crashing down and break their legs. Or maybe both. Cas moaned louder, and Dean was glad they didn't have any nosy neighbors. The angel stretched out a hand behind himself and gripped the top of the shower wall. He was gorgeous: too pretty and just plain fuckable to be real. Dean responded by grabbing hard enough to leave bruises and shoving it in, Cas gasping and blaspheming, and Dean felt about ready to explode, and then the throbbing started and he slammed into the wall, Cas finally losing traction with his feet and his hand, but Dean kept him up by squeezing him against the wall, shoving into him as hard as he could, all the way in, while sparks shattered behind his eyes and his knees went soft.

Cas gasped one last time and let his feet drop down to the floor, wobbling as Dean kept them both upright. 

“I enjoyed that,” said Cas. “Just so you'll know.”

“You're gonna kill me,” said Dean. “Figure of speech,” he added hastily when Cas's eyes went wide. “Oh, speaking of which, we gotta get dried off and get those bandages on you.” Cas's wound actually looked better today: maybe it was Jezibaba's magic, Dean didn't know. He didn't care. Everything was going to be OK. It just was.

After toweling off, Dean pulled on his jeans and went out to the living room to find the package of bandages. His phone was still sitting on the coffee table, the red message light on. He picked it up and put it to his ear. “Oh shit!”

“What's wrong, Dean?” asked Castiel.

“Forgot to call Jess for Sammy,” said Dean, dialing his phone. “Oh, hey Jess!” he said into the phone. “Yeah, uh, sorry, he told me to call. Yeah my fault.” He held the phone away from his ear, wincing at it as Cas smiled faintly. “So he's already back. Well, that's great, huh? Look, sorry Jess. Things just....” Dean looked over at Castiel. “Things just.... I got a lot going on. I'm visiting a sick friend!”

The phone call went on, longer than Dean would have hoped. “I should've picked up the phone I guess,” he said, thumbing through his messages.

“Was Sam's girlfriend upset?” asked Cas.

“Upset is not the word. Oh, wait, I got something from Benny.” Dean dialed again and listened to the mail. “Shit!”

“What's the matter?”

“There's been more murders!” He put down the phone, and went to pull out some bandages. “I gotta get out of here once we get you all patched up. There's been some killings down at Harvelle & Sons.”

“Harvelle?” said Cas.

“Yeah, you know it?” Dean was winding the gauze around Cas's chest. He grinned and stole a kiss. 

“They're one of our contractors. For the Zizkov project, I believe.”

“Interesting! Hey, you still working for the angels?” asked Dean.

“I was never officially separated,” said Cas. “Perhaps I will go in and have a talk with them.”

“Be careful,” warned Dean. “Angels can be weasels! Well, present company excepted,” he added when Cas aimed a glare his way. 

Dean sat on the couch and pulled Cas down into his lap. “They are my family, Dean.”

“Family can be jerks, Cas. Like I said, be careful!”

 

“This here is Miss Harvelle,” said Benny when Dean at last arrived at the scene. His partner indicated a young, blond woman.

Dean pointed up to the sign. “Uh, I take it you're not one of the sons?”

She waved a hand. “Dad didn't have any sons. He thought that would look better than a company run by a woman. And then he split, and left me and my mom in charge.”

Dean shook his head. “So, you were away when this happened?” They watched as a stretcher was walked out to the street. There was a sheet covering the body.

“I don't work here anymore, I wait tables down the street. My mom was away running an errand.”

“Fortunate,” said Dean.

“Fortunate? I would've killed the motherfucker!” Jo spat. “I know what's around in this city. I carry a silver knife!” 

They all spun around when they heard cries from the ambulance workers. The attendants had nearly stumbled coming down the steps. The body was jostled, and a single arm fell out from under the sheet. There was a very odd, very large watch strapped around the wrist. The crystal had been shattered.

“Oh shit. Ash!” said Jo. She ran over to the body and fell to her knees, holding the wrist.

“Joanna Beth!” said an older woman who had just emerged from the building. 

Jo, in tears, looked up at her. “It's Ash, Mom.” 

The woman leaned over and gave Jo a kiss on the top of her head. “I know baby,” she muttered, smoothing her hair. She pulled Jo to her feet, and walked her back over to the steps, where the girl sat down.

“Dean, this is Mrs. Harvelle,” said Benny. “She runs the company. I talked to her before you got here.”

“Ellen,” she said, extending a hand to Dean. 

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Dean told her. 

“I knew we shouldn't have done that deal with angels,” said Jo.

“We needed the business,” said Ellen.

“Have you received any specific threats?” asked Dean.

“I went over that with the other officer,” Ellen told him. “Nothing specific. But you know, dealing with angels...”

Dean nodded grimly. Benny inclined his head and so Dean excused himself and followed his partner inside. “So, there's no sons in Harvelle and Sons?”

“And no daughters either. The girl quit some time ago. I gather it was partly over her mom working with the angels.”

“Have they figured out cause of death yet?” Dean asked as they walked into the offices. The place was a mess: it looked like a hurricane had hit inside with furniture toppled over and debris everywhere. In fact, it looked like it had been a literal hurricane, as there was water everywhere.

There were also bodies draped in sheets. “No official word from the coroner's office, but it looks to me like strangulation.”

“Wait, all of them?” asked Dean. Benny crouched down and flicked a sheet off of one of the bodies. Dean squatted down beside him and took a look at the body. There were ugly bruises around the neck. “So, someone, or more likely something, comes in here, makes a giant mess, and we're none the wiser.”

“It gets weirder,” said Benny.

“How much weirder?”

“Fucking weird.” Benny led him down the corridor to a door marked _UTILITY_. “This is the boiler room,” he told Dean. “Or what's left of it. Take a look.” 

It was something to behold: the tank had exploded. At least it had a big blowhole in the side, and water was everywhere. “Someone sabotaged their boiler?” said Dean. 

“But there were no reports of loud noises, explosions, anything!” said Benny.

“Hey, check this out,” said Dean, once again crouching down. He pointed to the muddy floor. “Those look like tracks to you?” It resembled hoof prints.

Benny took out his cell phone and snapped a couple of pictures. “I'll get the forensics boys in here to check it,” he said, regarding his photos. 

“I wanna pass those pictures along to some friends,” said Dean.

“Some friends?” Benny’s smile was sharp-toothed and knowing. “Let me guess: does it sound like the start of a bad joke?”

“I'm gonna owe them some Scotch.”


	7. Chapter 7

“A Bukavac?” asked Sam, spreading out the book. “Never heard of it.”

Bobby and Rufus shared a look. They were at Bobby's place tonight, as it was a Friday night, and Rufus didn't work on the Sabbath, but he figured it was A-OK with Jehovah to hang out with a Catholic friend and drink up his sacramental wine. Or so Father Singer claimed. The residence was more books than furniture. 

“Well, it's a river monster. Not too common in these parts,” said Bobby, pouring more wine.

“But it sounds like, I dunno, something you'd use to clean up in a machine shop!” Sam protested. “Or at least that’s what my brother will say.”

“Where is your brother, anyway?” asked Rufus. “He’s been scarce lately.”

“He ain’t found a lady friend, has he?” Bobby joked.

Sam went silent for a moment. “Uhhh, I think maybe…. I think maybe he’s hanging out … with that angel.”

“Hmmm! Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Bobby. “Some of them get to liking humans.”

“What do you guys know about them? Angels, I mean?”

Bobby chortled. “Now, don’t get the rabbi talking about malakim, you’ll be up all night.”

“Fuck off, Bobby,” snorted Rufus.

“I’ve read the older texts,” said Sam. “Angels were supposed to be celestial messengers.”

“There’s actually not a lot in texts about what happened,” Rufus confessed. “The angels have made sure of that. But the rumor is they were locked out. Stranded down here.”

“Wait, locked out of heaven? How is that even possible?”

Rufus was grinning. “Have you been around angels much? Their second favorite pastime, after holding board meetings, is fighting with each other. It was some kind of quarrel – and a big one. Remember, they were beings created for holy warfare.”

“So, they were sent down here?”

“Well, no. They were set adrift, more like it. They’re not like you or me, remember, they’re more like….:”

“Maybe waves of light or something?” asked Bobby.

Rufus stared at the rich red liquid in his glass. “Something like that. Anyway, some of them decided on making a home down here. But my understanding is, it takes up a lot of their magic to do that. They had to give up a lot of power, and most of their memories. And it took them a while to blend in, learn the ways of the world. But they began to band together in colonies, like the one to the east.”

“The ones running my city,” grumbled Sam.

“The ones currently running your city, boy,” said Bobby.

Sam sighed and began to gather his notes. “So, what can you give me about this Puke-o-Vac, or whatever the hell you called it?”

“We’ve got a few counter-measures,” Bobby told him, handing over a pile of books.

“And grab the horns if you can, once you’ve got him!” added Rufus. “Very useful!”

It was a very thoughtful Sam Winchester who wandered out of Bobby's apartment. He flinched when he heard the horn honking, and then was surprised to see his brother standing nearby, leaning against that ridiculous car. Dean inclined his head, and Sam shuffled over to the car, dumping his stack of books and references on the floor on the passenger side. After shaking his head at the load, Dean took off towards Sam’s side of town.

“Doing your homework?” 

“How did you know where I was?” asked Sam.

“Jess called. Again. So I figured I'd follow my hunch.”

“Oh, sorry!” said Sam. He dug out his phone and scowled at it. “Damn, forgot to charge it again. Hey, Bobby and Rufus gave me some counter-measures for your Bukavac!”

“For my what? Sounds like....”

“Something you'd use to vacuum up your shop?”

Dean eyed his brother, and then burst out laughing. But then he turned serious. “Sammy, you know what you're messing with?” he asked, one eye on his brother, the other on the road.

“Hey, despite what Jess has probably told you, since you're besties now, I'm doing fine in law school. And … I _like_ this Dean. I mean, I really do.”

“That wasn't what you told Dad.”

Sam stared at his brother, suddenly feeling ashamed. His last conversations with his father hadn’t been happy ones. If Sam had known what would happen to John Winchester…. Well, best not to dwell on it.

“Naw, it's OK,” Dean assured him. “That stuff you told him: you were right, I mean, you deserved your own life. We all do.”

“Like you getting to go out with an angel?” Sam retorted. To be quite honest, he blurted it out before he had time to think it through.

“Is that what I’m doing?” asked Dean, smiling slyly. “Seems like Cas and me, we're spending all our time inside.”

“Too much information!” said Sam, and both of the brothers chuckled.

“I dunno what happened with Cas,” Dean confessed. “It just … happened. You know? And when I thought he was done for.... I just couldn't take it. It's like it hurt. It physically hurt.”

“Are we actually having this talk?” Sam asked. Dean did a sort of thing where his cheeks got pink that, if it had been anyone else, Sam would say it was a blush. “You've changed.”

“Have I?”

“Look, part of this, Dean,” Sam said, waving at the stack of books on the floor, “is that I didn't want to give up being brothers, you know?”

“You don’t have to get back into the weird shit to be my dumb little brother, Sammy.”

“And what’s with calling me Sammy? I’m not ten years old!”

“I know. Believe me, I know.” Dean brought the car to a halt outside Sam’s apartment building. “But, look, do me a solid? At least keep Jess up to date on where you’re headed. I don’t wanna get in trouble with her!”

“Naw. Me neither,” Sam laughed. “We ought to get together some time, you know? All of us? Cas too. Like, dinner or something?”

“Like normal people?” Dean asked. His phone buzzed. “Hey Benny,” he said, and then he looked worried. “I gotta go,” he told Sam, who was gathering up his books.

“Uh, see ya later?” said Sam. Dean grunted, and then Sam was standing on the sidewalk, holding a pile of books, watching the Impala retreat in the distance.

 

An angel stormed up the stairs and into the offices marked only, Andělé. 

His eyes were two patches of black obsidian.

Ignoring the surprised noises the receptionist was making, he charged past her, and yanked open the door to the meeting room.

The angels gathered around the table blinked as the opened door cast a light into the dim room. “Castiel?” said someone.

Zachariah was on his feet. “Castiel. What are you doing here? You’re still out on leave….”

“Stop Zizkov,” said Castiel. “It must be stopped, and it must be stopped _now_. Every contractor – every contractor we have been working with – has been attacked. Humans have been killed! And the supernatural entities in question have no business being here.”

“Now, now, Castiel. We know you’ve been ill. We’ve just listened to a very informative Powerpoint-“

Castiel grabbed the laptop from the middle of the table and hurled it against the wall, shattering it. There was an agitated fluttering and flapping from the gathered angels. “Fuck the Powerpoint,” he said. “Humans are dying!”

“Castiel. I am going to call security,” warned Zachariah, who did his level best to loom over Castiel. But the smaller angel was now standing nose to nose with him. The dark wing-shadows that arched from his back were nearly visible to the naked eye.

“Stop Zizkov.”

“You- You don’t know what you're saying,” stuttered Zachariah.

“Yes. I do.”

“Castiel,” urged Rachel. “Please, think about what you’re doing.”

“No, he’s right,” said Inias, who had been sitting across the room. “Castiel is right.”

“Shut up, Inias!” yelled another angel, an angry woman, who leapt to her feet flourishing a blade.

“Hester, for God's sake, put that away,” pleaded Inias. 

But then Hester was at Castiel's side. “God's sake? God is dead!”

“Sit down,” snapped Zachariah.

A blade flashed, and then two, as Castiel countered Hester's strike. She stepped back, and suddenly, a great, blinding light poured from her eyes and mouth. She slumped, and collapsed into Castiel's arms.

Zachariah stood, bloody blade in his hand. “I said, sit down,” he grumbled, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his sword.

“You killed her,” said Inias, who was helping Cas lower what was left of Hester to the ugly, dun-colored shag carpet. “She’s dead, and you killed her, Zachariah.”

“Yes, yes, now can we please get on with the meeting,” sighed Zachariah, who didn’t appear to be the least bit fazed. “I have requested that you leave, Castiel.”

Cas glanced at Inias, crouched beside him over Hester’s burnt out body. His eyes had faded from black back to their normal blue. He stood up.

“Zachariah, you do not fully realize what you – what all of us – are up against,” Castiel stated.

“Earth gods,” huffed Zachariah. 

“You’ll admit that’s what they are,” asked Castiel, as several of the angels around the room gasped and began to mutter among themselves.

“Yes, of course, of course. But they’re not match for us. No match.”

Castiel glanced at Inias once again. The other angel’s face was grim. “Then you will not listen to reason,” said Cas. He looked around the room. “You will end up like Hester. All of you.” He turned and walked from the room, shaking his head, and did not stop until he’d reached the bottom of the steps.

A car pulled up to the curb nearby. The passenger side door opened. Cas peered into the car curiously. “Cecily?” he asked, recognizing the driver.

“Get in. The boss wants to talk to you.”

Castiel entered the car, and it pulled away. They drove in silence for a moment.

“Trying to talk sense into a bunch of angels?” asked Cecily, eyeing Cas up and down.

“As you have surmised, it was all in vain,” said Castiel. “And in my haste, I may well have gotten one of my sisters killed.” He looked over at the demon. “How did you know I would be here?”

“Human deaths,” she explained. “You’re soft on those humans. Like the boss is soft on you.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Duh! I mean, I suppose I couldn’t expect you were as smart as you are pretty.” She flashed her eyes at him once again. Count on Cecily to make him uncomfortable. “Think about it, Captain Sexy. What kind of deal did Crowley get to bring you back from the brink?”

“What deal?” asked Cas, absently rubbing the wound on his side. “There was no deal.”

“Yeah. No deal. With His Majesty, the King of the Crossroads.”

Castiel struggled to re-focus his mind. He disliked interacting with Cecily: she always acted as if she knew something Castiel did not. Was it possible that Crowley was indeed affectionate towards him? He had declared himself a friend, on numerous occasions. 

And then, finally, haltingly, the penny dropped.

“Oh!” said Castiel. He turned to Cecily. “But I thought you and he-“ 

“Me and him what? Oh, that.” Cecily smirked. “Yeah, sometimes. But probably not as creative as what you’re doing with that cop.”

Castiel flushed. 

“Damn, you’re even more handsome when you’re embarrassed. Is there anything you can do that doesn’t make you more fucking attractive?” asked Cecily.

“Cecily, I don’t see the point of this interrogation.”

“And hotter when mad. It’s not fair. Genetics, I tell you.”

“You have not seen the full extent of my anger,” warned Castiel. “Nor my annoyance. I could fly this car into the river.”

“No, no! I just got it cleaned. Damn.” Cecily sighed, and then for once, actually appeared serious. “All right, all right. Look, don’t tell anyone I told you this. I’m saying it out of my own self-interest. The boss healed you up, and then you ditched him for that Winchester kid.”

“I meant no disrespect.”

“Well, you didn’t, but now he’s mooning around like a teenager. It’s bad for business.” She shrugged. “Plus, you know, we’ve got those crazed displaced pagan gods attacking us all over.”

“You fear them?”

“Well, I’m a demon, but I’m not an idiot.”

Cas slumped back against the car’s comfortable leather seat. “Then you are a demon, but sadly, you are wiser than most angels.”

Cecily glanced over at him, and for once, her look was more concerned than appraising. “You really look bummed out, kiddo,” she said.

“Zachariah does not see the danger.”

“Zachariah is a big douchebag.”

To Cecily’s shock, Castiel laughed. 

“You'll talk to him?” Cecily asked. “The boss?”

“I'll talk,” said Cas. He gazed out the window, and was silent until Cecily pulled up outside of Crowley’s residence. She let him out, and then drove off, to whatever other business she had. Cas didn’t ask.

He went up the steps to Crowley’s house and was ready to let himself in the front door when it unexpectedly opened, startling him. He was curious to see the door opened by the white-gloved hands of one of Ježibaba’s assistants. 

“Crowley?” he called, as the entryway was dark. And then, “Ježibaba?”

Hearing no response, he walked further into the house. He heard a soft voice coming from one of the study rooms, and so peeked his head inside.

“No, not that book, the other volume!” said Sam Winchester. He was ensconced on one of the comfortable couches, surrounded by books, and directing a small flock of helping hands.

“Sam?” asked Cas.

“Oh, uh, hi Cas!” said the younger Winchester, who blushed. He abruptly stood up, dropping the book which had been propped in his lap. “Uh, didn’t expect to see you here,” he explained as he scrambled to pick it up.

“Obviously,” said Cas. 

Ratchet, Crowley’s gigantic, white hell hound, had been curled at Sam’s feet. It was now nosing on the book he had dropped. Sam leaned over to give the beast a scratch behind the ears. It closed its red eyes, and settled back down.

“Castiel. We haven’t seen you in a dog’s age,” said Crowley, who was now hovering in the doorway. 

With a curt nod towards Sam, Castiel turned and marched out into the hallway. “What is the boy doing here?” he whispered once they were out of earshot.

“Some studying. He’s using certain of my mother’s books on a kind of inter-library loan.” Crowley smiled wryly and watched as the helping hands wafted past them with another stack of aged tomes. “Said it was comfortable for him.”

“He can now see the hellhound?”

“Ratchet?” Crowley tutted. “The boy likes dogs, so I simply gave him a little spell.”

“A _little_ spell? You do realize that performance of magic is illegal for most human users?”

Crowley affected boredom. “I’m not quite certain why you’re getting your celestial panties in a bunch. You seem to be spending your time elsewhere. Life goes on. Perhaps I will sponsor another protégé.” The demon gasped as he was suddenly backed up against the wall.

“Sam Winchester is not yours to do with as you please,” Castiel growled. His eyes were two black blots.

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “I will do as I please. As I’ve always done.”

“But now you will answer to me.”

“For how long, angel?” asked Crowley.

Castiel felt a burning in his side. He backed down, cradling the sore area over his ribs.

“You are ungrateful,” snapped Crowley.

Castiel found himself fighting tears. He felt like he was being torn apart. “I didn’t ask you to heal me,” he rasped. 

“Just as well, as I didn’t heal you.” Crowley sighed and rolled his eyes. “Come on, let me see,” he said, his voice suddenly softer. He pulled at Castiel’s arm and, after a deep sigh, the angel allowed him to see his side. There was blood on his shirt. “I have some of my mother’s remedies around. Come on,” the demon urged, starting to walk away.

Cas stood still. “I am grateful,” he allowed. Crowley bit his lip. “But my life – what’s left of it – is my own.”

“Come along,” said Crowley. And he disappeared down the hall.

 

“God dammit, it tore my pants.”

“Question is, can it climb trees?”

Dean cast a glance over to where his partner, Benny, was perched up in the branches of an ancient oak tree beside him. He frowned again at the ripped seam in his jeans, and then scanned the ground for their pursuer. “What?” he muttered, miming confusion with his hands. Benny conveyed his meaning by pointing down, and then pointed up the tree. “I hope not,” Dean muttered as he realized his partner’s point.

Sammy's tip had led them to the Bukavac (which was a real thing – Sam had let him see an engraving of one in a book). The trail had led them to the old reservoir, here on the edge of town. On Sam's advice the both of them were wearing earplugs. According to the lore, the beast's method of attack was by first rendering its victims unconscious with its loud bellow. Evidently that was how one creature had been able to strangle all those people at Harvelle & Sons. 

That advice had saved Dean and Benny’s asses. They had been scoping out some footprints on the edge of the reservoir when the slimy thing suddenly leapt out of the murky water and tackled Benny, and then emitted some kind of gruesome howl. Dean heard it, even though it was muffled through the ear protection, and it sent shivers down his spine. Benny managed to break free of the monster thanks to his enhanced vampire strength, and the two of them had sprinted to a small stand of trees, where Dean had evidently massacred his favorite pair of jeans. 

The thing had found them, and was now wriggling around the base of the tree. Fortunately it didn’t seem like the thing could climb. It sort of resembled a really big frog, only it had not one but three pairs of large, jointed, spidery legs. It tried howling again, but it had no effect. And then it settled down, evidently to wait them out. 

Benny unholstered his gun, and Dean did the same. On the count of three, they both opened fire.

The thing looked mildly annoyed, but went back to waiting. Their bullets, unfortunately, just bounced off its tough hide.

“What do we do?” Dean mouthed.

Benny pointed to Dean and then mimed making a phone call. Dean pulled out his phone. He was going to ask, “Who,” but Benny pulled over a small branch, so a trail of leaves was cascading down his head.

“Call Sammy,” whispered Dean, who grinned despite his predicament. He opened his text messaging app. “SAMMY FOUND BUKA-THING.”

After a pause, the message came back, “WOW. PICTURE?”

Dean shrugged and snapped a photo.

“FUGLY!”

“WHAT 2 DO?” Dean messaged.

“R U UP A TREE?”

“Y. WAT DO WE DO?”

“KNOTTED ROPE.”

Dean remembered Sam’s instructions. After a bit of charades, Benny pulled a rope out of his pack and handed it over to Dean. They had dipped it in a variety of oils and powders that the mad monks (Dean’s most recent term for Bobby and Rufus) had supplied them.

“CATCH VOICE IN KNOT,” came the text. Dean juggled the rope and the phone on his lap as he crouched in the tree. “Make it howl!” he mouthed to Benny. Benny shrugged, and then grabbed a pine cone and chucked it down so it knocked the creature in the head. The Bukavac emitted an annoyed sound. Dean wound the rope and repeated, “With this rope, I thee bind.” He made a couple more sturdy knots, just for good measure.

There was a thump from down below. Dean and Benny peered down. The Bukavac had suddenly toppled onto its side and lay there, motionless.

Benny pulled out an earplug. “God damn. Did it work?”

They both carefully picked their way out of the tree, regarding the still creature. Benny picked up a stick and poked at it.

“Hey, don’t poke it!” said Dean.

Benny chuckled and tossed away the stick. “Wait here. I’m goin’ back to the car for something.”

“Don’t leave me here too long,” said Dean, waving the knotted rope. “I have no idea how long this spell lasts!”

“I won’t be long!” Benny called over his shoulder. To Dean's immense relief, the vampire was back promptly, carrying a rather a bag of equipment, plus a large axe. “May I do the honors?” 

“I stood here with the damned leash!” Dean protested. With a grin, Benny handed the axe over to Dean, who swiftly beheaded the beast. They then spent some time photographing the scene, and then building a pyre so they could salt and burn the remains, as was the standard procedure. 

“Sammy said to save the horns,” Dean commented as he tossed a match into the tangle of branches around the body. 

“What for?”

“Not exactly sure. Magic, maybe?” 

“Yeah, it's probably an ingredient in something or other.” Benny held up the bloodied head. “Sure you don't want the whole thing, brother? Could mount it on your wall. Hang your coat on the hooks.”

“Haha.”

There was a splash. Dean and Benny blinked and saw a familiar creature waddling up to them.

“Can I have the pretty? So pretty, pretty soul?” asked the Vodyanoy.

“You really want this wretched thing's soul?” asked Benny.

“You said I could have. If not human. Not human!” The frog-like eyes narrowed, and a tongue darted along grey lips. It held out a little porcelain bottle.

“Be my guest,” said Benny. He stepped back, and the Vodyanoy squatted down before the bonfire. It repeated some words, and then a little bubble flitted out of the fire. The Vodyanoy sprang up and plucked the bubble from the air, sticking it in the little vial, and twisting tight the lid, giggling in glee.

“You were the one who told us about Marzanna,” said Dean.

“Yes, yes. You still no bring me Marzanna. Bad thing. More creatures like this, they rise, they come.” It shook its head.

“Wait, you say Marzanna is why this thing woke up? I thought she brought death?”

“No no. Is cycle. Death to life. Life to death. Now is crazy-going.”

“So we need to bring her to you, to drown her.”

The Vodyanoy tilted its head, as if it were considering the question. “Maybe. Maybe. She powerful. Maybe if bring very soon. Yes, very very soon. 

 

“SAVE THE HORNS.”

“DONE.” 

Sitting on the sagging couch in his apartment, Sam smiled at the phone. Dean had sent him several photos of the thing, and he was eager to pass them along to Bobby and Rufus. Truth be told, he also wanted to brag about Dean and Benny, experienced cops, following his advice. He stood up, and reached for his coat.

“Hey!”

Sam jumped and twirled around at the sound of Jess's soft voice. “Uh, yeah. Hey,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn't hear you get up.”

“Obviously,” said Jess. 

“I was just gonna duck out for a minute. I didn't wanna wake you.”

“Sam, you realize this is the first time I've seen you in three days?”

“Uh, yeah.” Sam rested his back against the door. “Uh, so. Hey. How's it goin'?” 

Jess sat down on the couch and crossed her legs. Sam lingered by the door. He had wanted this to be quick, but it didn't look like it would be quick. “I've been working long shifts,” Jess told him. “Everybody has. There's some kind of new flu bug. We've got some real sick kids in the ward.”

“Oh. Sorry about that,” said Sam, who was now regretting his impatience. 

“Sam. This is the part where you tell me what you've been up to.”

“This and that.”

“Sam. There were some people here the other night.”

“What people?”

“That's my question. They were looking for you.”

Biting his lip, Sam glanced back at the door, thinking of outside, and freedom. He attempted to think of something to say that wasn't a lie, but wasn't necessarily the whole truth.

“Samuel Winchester, talk to me. Now.”

Sam walked over and, reluctantly, lowered himself down onto the couch next to Jess. “You see, we were planning a sort of … _ad hoc_ gathering....”

“Sam. We were clear. When we said we were in this, we were in this together.” She leaned over and grabbed his knee. “Baby, you need to talk to me.”

“Jess, it's dangerous.”

“Well no duh!” The knee squeeze turned to a knee slap. 

“I don't wanna put you in danger.”

“Oh? So you think the angels find out what you've been up to, they'll assume I'm innocent? You're the lawyer. _Think!_ We made an agreement, Sam. If we were in this, we were in this together, right?”

Sam couldn't help it when the tears started. “I don't- I don't wanna turn into my father. You know what happened to my mom!”

 

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean awoke to find an angel sitting on the edge of his bed. “Dammit! I'll never get used to that!”

“I wanted to stretch my wings,” said Cas simply. 

Dean, who was not one to waste having an angel on one's bed, dragged Cas over to him and kissed him. “You're not a dream,” he muttered. “You're not a dream this time.”

“This time?” asked Cas, who looked puzzled. But he often looked puzzled. Humans seemed to baffle him. It was awfully cute.

“Where were you anyway?” asked Dean after a bit more making out. Cas was wearing entirely too many clothes: a coat over a suit. It was annoying.

“I was having dinner with Crowley,” said Cas.

Dean made a face. It wasn't that he was jealous.... Well, maybe he was jealous. Just a little jealous. Or maybe a lot jealous. 

Cas sat up and wrested out of his long coat. “I'm aware that he is a demon, Dean. But I owe him my life. And he has been fair in his dealings.”

“Don't trust demons,” Dean muttered, irritably shifting and crossing his arms.

Cas was slowly removing his shoes, and apparently take a great deal of care in unlacing them. “Do you trust angels?”

“There's one I don't mind. Though he's a shifty bastard.”

“Bastards are the product of an unconsecrated union. I was not birthed in that manner.”

Dean pulled Cas – half unshod – back down and this time crawled all the way on top of him. “I don't wish to get your bed dirty,” Cas said, although he didn't seem uncooperative with what Dean was doing.

“I'll live. Why were you chatting with our friendly neighborhood demon?”

“Marzanna.”

“Any info on what she's up to?”

“He thinks she has already arisen. And death rides with her.”

Dean stopped what he was doing (which involved unbuttoning Cas's shirt) and frowned. “Do you always talk like that?”

There was that puzzled look again. “Like what, Dean?”

Dean had pulled away enough fabric to finally have purchase with some soft angel skin, which he passed some time nuzzling in a contented manner. 

“Dean.”

“Now what?”

Castiel hesitated. It was like he was crossing some kind of invisible boundary. But he had to do it. “I saw Sam ... there.”

“Sam where?”

“Crowley's.”

Dean went quiet, his whole body tensed. He slid back, breaking contact with Cas, and pushed his back against the headboard. 

Cas sat up as well. He curled up and sat cross-legged, silently watching Dean. Dean for some reason had the feeling that Cas could sit there a week – a month – forever, if need be. “You make me nervous when you stare like that.” He didn't seem to blink. Did angels even need to blink? There was so much Dean didn't know. 

“You and Sam are sons of John Winchester.”

“Yeah? So what?” Dean picked at a stray thread on his bedcover.

Cas sat still as a gravestone. “John Winchester was a hunter. A slayer of monsters. This profession is traditionally hereditary among humans; that is if I am not mistaken.”

“He was part of the reason I'm in Tajemny-”

“But It's not the quite same thing, is it, Dean? And Sam is attending law school, so he too has not continued in the family trade.”

“We don't have to live our lives like that. Hunting isn't a trade: it's a curse.” Cas didn't reply. Dean found he wanted him to: he wanted an argument very badly. “Is this some kind of freaky angel shit?”

“I don't understand.”

“Look, you obviously already know.”

“I'm sorry?”

Dean pulled his knees in to his chest, feeling the hot sting of tears in his eyes. “My mom. When she was pregnant with Sammy. There was a curse.” 

“It's not uncommon,” said Cas. “To run afoul of this or that god. There are many-”

“Cas, Dad said I might have to.... He said I might have to kill Sammy myself.”

Dean's eyes caught a slight movement: Cas's head had listed ever so slightly to the side, though he did not break the seven mile stare. “And you could not find it in yourself to do this? Compassion is not a fault, Dean. It is a virtue.”

“The witch,” said Dean, who suddenly recalled Castiel's shared memory. “You didn't kill that witch.”

“Perhaps there was a greater reason that you were pulled into that particular recollection,” said Cas, head still tilted, whether in wonder or in puzzlement, Dean could not be certain. 

“Maybe,” said Dean.

“I will not let anything untoward happen with your brother, Dean. This I swear to you. From now on, he too is under my protection. As well as Jessica Moore.”

“He too?” asked Dean. “Who else-” But he was interrupted by his phone squawking at him. Cursing, he reached across the bed to grab it. He listened, his mind taking a moment to catch up. “Wait. Where? Seriously? Cas!” he said, turning.

The curtains rustled softly in the wind. His window was open. And Cas was gone.

 

“I don't understand. These were angels. _Angels_!”

Dean had been partnered with Benny from the time he had joined the Tajemny. They had seen many things: some quite honestly horrible. Things that might give a civilian nightmares, or worse. But Dean had never seen the vampire in quite this state.

The sign at street level read simply, Andělé. Inside lay complete and utter devastation: broken bodies, and the faint shadows of burnt out wings stamped forever across dun-colored walls and cheap carpets. There was the reek of burnt feathers, and another smell: ozone.

Several angels had been pierced by arrows. The shafts carried arcane markings. And there were also large stones strewn everywhere. All of it smacked of a supernatural entity of some kind.

“We’re thinkin’ it’s a thunder god,” said Benny, pointing to the scorch marks. 

Dean shivered. Thunder gods tended to rank pretty high in the pantheon. Though there were mostly quiet nowadays, they were not good beings to tangle with, even for angels, as they tended to be both mercurial and incredibly powerful.

“The big boss too?” asked Dean, who inclined his head towards where Zachariah's office had been.

“We think so,” said Benny. “Not much left of him. Not even teeth. Just a pile of angel-flavored ash.”

“You seen Cas?”

“We haven't found his body, Dean. I don't think-”

“No,” said Dean, waving a hand as personnel from the crime lab shuffled past him. “I know he wasn't here. He was.... Well, he was with me.”

“Another late night?” asked Benny, but the jest was half-hearted.

“He left. He left. It was as if he knew.”

_“Dean.”_

Dean whirled around at the sound of the familiar voice. “Cas.” He was relieved to see his friend, but surprised to see Castiel standing at the head of a small group of formally dressed people. He turned to Benny. “Give us a minute.”

“Yeah,” said Benny, gazing at the small crowd. 

Dean strode over to speak to the angel. Benny followed, although he kept his distance. “Did you know about this?” he asked, waving at the Andělé headquarters.

Cas gazed at the ground. He appeared to be blinking back tears. “No. No. I wish….” He trailed off. The faces around him showed a mixture of sadness, anger and concern. 

“We might have stopped it,” said a dark-haired man standing next to Cas.

“We could have done nothing. Zachariah was obstinate,” countered a woman.

“Dean,” said Cas, “When I left you last night, I went to meet with my brethren. This is Inias,” he said, indicating a dark-haired man. “And Hannah,” he added, nodding towards the woman. “Samandriel, Muriel….” Other men and women turned and smiled as Castiel pronounced their names.

“You’re all angels,” said Dean.

“Yes, we’re angels,” huffed Hannah, rolling her eyes.

“There is a malevolent evil upon us now,” Inias told Dean. “Zachariah refused to see it. Castiel was the only one who saw the truth. Now, we are in earnest: we must make up for lost time.”

Dean shot a glance at Benny. Did all angels talk this way? But the vampire’s face was impassive.

The angel Castiel had identified as Muriel was chatting on a cell phone. She hung up, her face creased in worry. “Guys. We have something else to worry about.”

“Oh, what now?” demanded Hannah.

Muriel looked pale. “They’re sending out replacements. From the East. They’re sending….” She glanced at Castiel.

“Naomi?” Cas asked, his voice barely a whisper. The small group on angels began to murmur to one another. Even Dean stifled a shudder. He felt a big hand on his shoulder: Benny threw him a questioning look. “Later,” Dean mouthed.

“We will talk,” Cas told Dean. 

“Is there any way we can help?” Dean offered.

Cas managed a small smile. “Thank you. But, no. We will discuss what to do next, my brethren and I. I will tell you what we decide.” Dean noticed that Hannah looked skeptical, but some of the other angels nodded. Dean was about to say something, but Cas suddenly turned, and, with a nod and a small whispering sound, like the rushing of wings, the whole group abruptly disappeared.

“Wow,” said Dean.

“You ain’t seen ‘em take off before?” Benny asked. Dean shook his head. “And what the actual fuck is a Naomi?”

“She’s another angel,” Dean told him. “Bad news.”

“Worse than that asshole, Zach?”

Dean shook his head. “She’s some kind of angel enforcer. She had Cas and … tortured him.” He winced with the recollection.

“You get a look at their faces?” 

“They looked scared,” said Dean.

“Yeah. Angels ain’t supposed to look scared. Not ever.”

Dean suddenly realized why he was uneasy: Benny had never looked genuinely afraid before. It was contagious. He jerked as his cell phone went off. “Hey, Jess. I don’t know where he is.”

“I’m pulling another double shift,” came a tired voice from the other end. “This sickness is turning into an epidemic. Sam promised he’d look into whether there was some kind of spell or curse or whatever the fuck it is you guys deal with.”

“People are getting sick? I hadn’t heard about it,” Dean told her. 

“There’s a big chunk of the unit that didn’t report in this mornin’,” whispered Benny. 

“The Marzanna – she brings plagues right?” Dean asked his partner. 

“Shit,” Benny whispered.

Dean went back to his phone call. “Look, Jess. I think I know where my brother’s gone. I’ll kill two birds, and find him there. Don’t worry, OK? I got this.” He ended the call and turned to Benny. “Can you hitch a ride back? Sounds like I gotta get out to see our favorite rabbi.”

Benny winked and nodded. “Yep, tell him _mazel tov_ for me.”


	8. Chapter 8

To Dean’s dismay, Sam was not at Rabbi Turner’s house, although Father Singer was there, of course. The two of them seemed rather excited by Dean’s report of the slaughter at angel headquarters.

“Got to be Perun,” said Rufus, who had gone to grab a pile of books.

“Stones and arrows,” said Bobby, who was nodding his head. “Not a good critter to anger, those thunder gods.”

“That’s what I heard,” sighed Dean. “So, you guys haven’t seen my brother?”

“He’s been a little scarce lately, truth to tell,” said Father Singer, rubbing his beard. 

There was a knock at the door, and Rabbi Turner bustled off to answer it. He returned in the company of a pretty blonde woman who was still dressed in scrubs underneath her coat.

“Jess?” said Dean. “Is Sam with you?”

“No,” said Jessica, who was immediately ushered into a chair. “I took two buses across town to find this place.” Somehow, she was immediately provided with tea and even little cookies. 

“So you’re the lovely Jessica,” said Rufus. “And here Sam chooses to hang out with us old coots instead of you?”

“Told ya he’s a idjit,” grumbled Bobby, who was also delicately dropping teaspoons of sugar into Jess’s tea cup.

“Oh, he’s mentioned me?” asked Jess.

“He don’t talk of nothing else!” said Bobby. “And I can see why!”

“So, when are you due, my dear?” asked Rufus, who had pushed a footstool under a slightly flustered Jess’s feet.

Jessica blushed, and Dean blinked in surprise. She put a hand to her stomach. “Oh, it’s still seven months away. I’m not very far along. We haven’t- We haven’t told anyone,” she confided, glancing at Dean.

“You’re gonna have … a baby?” Dean blurted.

“That’s generally what happens at the end of a pregnancy, kid,” Bobby told him with a snort of derision.

“I- I think I know where he is,” said Dean told Jess.

“I’m not after him right now,” she confessed. “The sickness has gotten bad. We’re losing a lot of patients. Healthy young people. I’ve heard you guys might have a cure. I usually don’t go in for that kind of….” She trailed off awkwardly.

“That kinda bullshit?” offered Bobby with a grin.

“I didn’t mean that, Father.”

“We don’t stand on formality here, kiddo. I’m Bobby, and he’s Rufus.”

“And in answer to your question,” added Rufus, “we’ve got to fend off Marzanna. And that takes … a ritual.”

“No more secrets, all right?” said Bobby. “We’ve got a crisis, we gotta be straight with each other. We’ve got a big, real old, real powerful witch mad at us, and we need a gathering to get rid of her.”

“Sam was working on it,” said Jess. “Contacting different factions. He doesn’t think I know, but he’s not as sneaky as he thinks he is.”

“I knew it!” said Dean. “The little jerk.”

“Well then what’s taking so damned long?” asked Bobby. “We don't need to be fancy about it, just need a critical mass of warm bodies.”

Jess sat forward, sipping her tea. “You must understand, the protest movement here…. It’s many factions, and there’s a lot of in-fighting. It’s very difficult to get everyone to trust one another.”

“Well, that explains why all the anti-governmental activity has added up to horse shit,” said Rufus.

“You need to bring people together. And Sam – he has a knack for it.”

“That's my brother,” said Dean, who was proud despite himself.

“And you can't say the government is making it easier,” Jess added, side-eyeing Dean.

“Hey, I'm Tajemny! I haven't had anything to do with the riot police.” Dean cursed as his annoying cell phone once more went off. He took a look at his messages. “Dammit. I've got to get back to the precinct. Come on, Jess. I'll drop you.”

“I can make it back,” she protested.

“I'm not having my nephew take two buses across town.”

Jess smiled and patted her stomach. “Could be a niece.”

“Then you're not taking my niece on two buses!”

Bobby elbowed Rufus. “If it's a niece, I pity the boy she dates.” They both grinned, and Dean escorted Jess out to his car. Dean opened the passenger side door for her.

“Dean,” she said, putting a soft hand on his arm.

“No arguments, Jess, I'm giving you a ride.”

“It's not that,” she said softly. “Dean. I haven't told Sam yet...”

Dean stared at her. “Wait. About the baby?”

“He's been so distracted lately, and there's so much going on....”

“You need to tell him!”

“I know. I know.”

“OK. All right. Jess, your secret's safe with me. But you gotta tell him!”

She smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean was still quite distracted when he finally got back to Tajemny headquarters. His stupid little brother – a father! At any other time, he would have been delighted with the news, but now it was only one more worry to add on the pile. He vowed that as soon as he'd completed his work today, he was going to drive straight to Crowley's, and drag Sam out by that ridiculous hair if need be. 

“Gear up!” snapped Benny, and Dean snapped to attention as his partner tossed something at him. Dean caught it: a helmet. 

“What the hell?” asked Dean.

“We've all been drafted into riot control,” Benny supplied. 

Dean looked around the Tajemny squad room: everyone else was gearing up, slipping into their personal armor, grabbing shields and batons. “Oh hell, no,” said Dean, tossing his helmet onto his desk. 

As if he had materialized from nothing (and perhaps he had) Lt. Henricksen was there, handing it back. “Gear up, Winchester. These orders come from the top.”

“The angels?” asked Dean.

“Like I said, the top. Word's come down about a protest – a really big one.”

Dean set the helmet once again down on the desk. “Yeah. They're working magic against the Marzanna.”

Henricksen eyed Dean. “What do you know about this?”

“It ain't a protest, Chief. There's big magic at work, and we suspect we've riled up a really old, really powerful witch.”

“Who's we, exactly?” asked Henricksen, narrowing his eyes.

“We've been working the case, boss,” Benny put in. 

“I know,” snapped Henricksen, pointing to the white board. “I see a lot of lines. I don't see any cases cleared!”

“It's all one case,” said Dean. “We need to send the witch back: that's the key. And it takes a gathering, whether the angels like it or not.”

“What you call a gathering is what the government calls an illegal protest. And it's our job to derail it.”

“It's our job to protect the citizens against magical crap!” Dean countered. “Victor, dammit. You're obeying the letter of the law, but not the spirit, man!” 

“That's Lieutenant Henricksen to you, Winchester.”

“Victor. Benny.” Dean's eyes were pleading. “You saw what happened to the angels!”

“I saw, brother,” said Benny, his voice soft. “I saw. And we need to keep order now.”

“You can't really believe that. Everybody!” The room had gotten silent as Dean's fellow officers ceased gearing up and listened to the quarrel. “Putting down citizens isn't our job. It's protecting them!”

“The angels say-” Henricksen started.

“The angels are full of shit.”

Henricksen was nose to nose with Dean, his eyes flashing. “Winchester. Stop talking. Just shut it. And put on this damned helmet, right fucking now, or I'm gonna ask for your badge.”

Dean and Henricksen glared at one another for a long moment. Then Dean took out his badge and tossed it on his desk. He turned on his heel. “You're doing this, you're doing it without me,” he muttered, throwing a glance at Benny as he stormed out.

“Dean! Dammit!” Benny was chugging after him in the parking lot, still half-clothed in riot gear.

“I'm done,” Dean told him. 

“Dean, you can't abandon your job now.”

“I'm the one _doing_ my job! We've gotta stop Marzanna. You know that, Benny.”

The vampire gnashed his pointed teeth. “You really think a few hippies holding signs is gonna put down this witch? You saw the angel offices!”

Fuming, Dean hopped into the driver's seat. He was about to slam the door, but Benny held it open. “Yeah. I think a lot of people holding up signs is what we need right now. And if you weren't shit scared yourself, you'd be helping me.”

“I don't know what to do anymore!” the vampire protested. “I don't know what's right or wrong anymore.”

Dean paused, his hands on the steering wheel. “Look, you wanna help? You wanna do what's right? Go back and convince Henricksen he's fulla shit. I'm gonna go get my brother, and when the hippies with signs are out there, I'm gonna be with them, holding a damned sign if that's what it takes. Now get the fuck outta my way.”

Benny loosed his grip on the door, and Dean closed it with a slam. And then he was roaring out of the parking lot, Benny standing alone, watching him go.

 

“No, curse it, your brother is not here.”

Dean paced back and forth in Crowley's large, high-ceilinged residence, stalking like a caged cat. “Where have you got him, Crowley? I'm not in the mood for games.”

Crowley sat defiantly on his couch, gesturing with a cut crystal glass of whiskey. “I haven't seen him. Why don't you go wear out the carpet with your favorite preachers instead?”

“Because you're gonna hand him over if I have to use every curse in my damn bag.”

Crowley's eyes darkened. “Believe me, my human friend, you don't want to cross swords with me.”

Dean halted in mid-step. “I'm not your friend.”

“I am going to count to three,” Crowley told him. But there was suddenly a strong breeze coming through his study. “Oh, blaze it, what now?”

“Cas?” asked Dean. But it was not Cas.

“Don't worry about your brother, Dean. He's safe.” Both Crowley and Dean blinked at the tall woman who was now standing in the middle of Crowley's study. 

“Naomi?” asked Dean.

Crowley's eyes flashed between her and Dean. “Naomi! Oh for pity's sake, how the hell did you ooze through my warding?”

“Sam is with us now,” Naomi continued, ignoring Crowley. 

Dean felt the panic rising. “You've got him?”

Naomi smiled. It was terrifying. “He is … a guest. It's certainly a better environment for him that where he's been spending his time lately,” she sniffed, glaring at Crowley.

“Where have you got Sam? I want him back.”

“As I've told you,” said Naomi, her face serene, “your brother is perfectly safe in our care. Now, we do have a bit of unfinished business with one of our … colleagues. Perhaps you could help?”

“Always a price,” laughed Crowley. “Let me guess, you'll trade him for Castiel?”

Now Dean had genuinely started to panic. “You want Cas? Why?”

“We only wish to speak with him. Why don't you relay our message? And then we can go about reuniting your family.”

“What are you gonna do to Cas? You can't have him!”

Crowley grinned. “Dean Winchester may be human, but he's not an idiot, Naomi. Your usual tricks won't work.”

“Be silent, demon!” For just an instant, the mask of calm slipped, and Dean saw something very dark flash in Naomi's eyes. But then the moment passed. “Kindly convey our message to your friend.” But then she suddenly looked around, her expression as one who has heard something very faint, very far away.

And then many things happened at once. A bright light suffused the room, there was a faint sound, like wings flapping, and a wind gusted through, blowing a few stray items to the floor.

“Dammit, I just had the cleaners through!” shouted Crowley, who picked up a a few papers that had slid off one of the coffee tables. 

Naomi was no longer in the room. In her place was a small group of angels.

“Cas!” said Dean, striding over to greet his friend.

“We are seeking Naomi,” said Cas. Dean also recognized the angels named Inias and Muriel. They both looked intrigued by the surroundings. 

“You just missed her,” grumbled Crowley, who was stacking some magazines back on a coffee table. “And next time, can you please turn down the special effects?”

“She has Sam,” Dean told Cas. 

“Crowley,” said Cas. “Is this true?”

“From her lips to our ears. I can tell you the boy hasn't been here in a while. I guess everyone has found better company these days,” he added with a sneer.

“Crowley,” said Cas, though his voice was soft. “Please don't lie to me. We are in earnest.”

Crowley stopped tidying up and finally met Cas's eyes. “He's not here. As to that sadistic wench's claims, I can't say. She didn't appear to be practicing her usual prevarication.”

“We can't trust her, Castiel,” said Inias. “You know this.” Muriel, meanwhile, had picked up a snow globe that had fallen to the floor and was staring at it with intense fascination.

“What did she want, Dean?” Castiel asked him.

“You,” snapped Crowley.

Dean shook his head. “She claimed she wanted to talk. But I don't believe that part for a second. Crowley,” he continued, looking at the demon. “There must be a way to bust in there.”

Crowley thumped down on the couch. He grabbed the snow globe from Muriel, shook it, and handed it back to the startled angel. She gasped as the little plastic snowflakes drifted down. Crowley rolled his eyes. “We wouldn't get anywhere near. It's warded and locked and magicked up their holy arses.”

Cas stood up straight. “Then I must go.” Inias began to speak, but Cas waved a hand. “Sam is essential to bringing the gathering to fruition. And.... He is our friend.”

“Cas, no.” Dean felt his heart sinking. Everything was spinning out of control. “You're not going there. We'll figure something out.”

“I have experience dealing with Naomi,” Cas insisted.

“I know. That's why I don't want you anywhere near her!”

“Dean, you know as well as I do, we must stop Marzanna. Humans are dying, and ancient forces are being unleashed. Forces even I and my brethren cannot counteract.”

“She almost killed you last time.”

“Dean.” Cas now had a hand on Dean's shoulder. “I will be careful, I promise.” He stared at the floor. “Besides, it’s not clear how much time I have left, regardless.”

“Just....” Dean trailed off. There was too much to say, and Dean didn't come close to having the words. “Come back. And bring back my brother.”

“I will. Inias!” The other angel snapped to attention. “You will lead in my stead. By all means-”

“Protect the humans,” said Inias. “Yes, Castiel.”

Cas nodded at Dean. 

“And try not to get yourself killed,” Crowley muttered. Muriel sat on the couch beside him, still regarding the snow globe. And then, with a soft flutter of wings, Cas was gone.

Dean exhaled. “I need to do something,” he said, starting to pace again. “I can't just wait here.”

“Oh, please quit exhausting my carpet,” Crowley scolded. “There's nothing you can do.”

“You could go talk to Perun.”

Dean turned. There was now a well-groomed demon woman sitting a couch across the room, casually twitching one high-heeled foot. At least, Dean guessed she was a demon, as she had shown up with a faint whiff of sulfur.

“Please be quiet, Cecily,” Crowley told her.

Cecily grinned and snapped her impeccably manicured fingers, and suddenly Muriel's snow globe was in her hands. The snow turned to sparks, and the little house inside began to burn.

“What do you mean, see Perun?” asked Dean, as Inias, too, drew closer.

“You're playing with toys when you could be negotiating. I mean, negotiation: that is your thing, right boss?” Cecily taunted.

“Remind me again why I don't reduce you to lemon-scented ashes, Cecily?”

She stretched out her legs. “Because I'm the only one around here who doesn't bullshit you.”

Dean looked to the demon. “Crowley, is this a thing?”

Crowley was shaking his head. “Thunder gods. You never know how they'll react.”

“I know. But I thought you were the King of the Crossroads or something?”

Crowley glowered. “We don't even know where he is.”

“Try the highest point nearby,” said Cecily. “That's where they tend to perch, isn't it?”

“Crowley,” said Dean. “We gotta give this a try.”

“I will accompany you,” said Inias. “Muriel, will you maintain a watch in my stead?”

Muriel smiled mildly. She held out her hand, and was suddenly once again holding the snowglobe. “I think so.” The little house inside rebuilt itself, as a soft plastic snow fell once again.

“Da-amn,” said Cecily, who actually appeared ever-so-slightly impressed.

 

“Cas! Hey Cas! Are you awake?”

The voice seemed familiar, but somehow far off. Castiel tried to move, but everything felt sore. Slowly, he forced his eyes open. One eye didn't seem to want to open very wide. Wincing, he put a hand to his face. It was quite swollen. 

“Cas?”

Gritting his teeth, Cas rolled over on his side and then forced himself into a sitting position. His vision was blurry at first, but then, as he breathed, finally resolved, more or less. 

The iron bars were all too familiar, as was the cold, stone floor. He recognized this place. He stifled a shudder.

“Cas, are you OK?”

He managed to orient himself to the direction of the voice. “Sam,” he whispered. 

Dean's brother was on his knees in the cell next to Cas, gripping the bars. “Thank God, dude. When they brought you in here, I thought....”

“God … had nothing to do with it. I assure you.” Painfully, Cas crawled nearer. He stopped, and peered at Sam. “You're injured.”

Sam, who was sporting not one but two black eyes, put his hand to his face. “Think they broke my nose. But I've had worse. Oh, man, you're bleeding.”

Cas put a hand to his side. He quirked a smile at the blood on his fingers. “I'm dying.”

“No.”

“It can't be stopped. Unfortunately, I have failed in my one remaining mission, to send you back. Please tell your brother-”

“Stop!” said Sam. “Right now. We know spells, we know charms, we got demons and angels and even a priest and a rabbi on our side. We'll patch you up. After we get outta here. Now, let's talk about escaping.”

Cas stared for a long moment. He still found humans surprising. He managed a small smile. “There is warding. It will impede our rescuers.”

“Can we counteract it somehow? You can paint over warding marks. I've seen it done.”

“It's best to destroy the markings.” Castiel touched the nearby brick wall. “But if this is like the prison where I was confined before, they are not painted on. Here the wardings are etched into the very walls.”

“So, we get a bar of soap, and carve it into a jackhammer,” said Sam. Cas stared at him. “Joke, Cas.”

 

Bobby stirred in bed, and then pulled the pillow over his head.

The thumping on the window continued.

“Dammit, what kinda idjit is trying to wake me up at this godforsaken hour!” he groused. He threw back the covers and then shuffled over to his window. He pulled it open, and was nearly clobbered by a pebble someone had just tossed his way.

“What the hell!” he hollered out the window to the darkened street below.

“Father Singer?”

“Who the blazes else would I be at this time of night?”

A dark figure stepped forward into the street light, hat in hand. “I'm awful sorry, padre. I can't come on sacred ground.”

Bobby squinted at the figure. “Officer Lafitte, is it? What in tarnation-”

“Can we talk?”

“Come to the front damned door!” Bobby slammed the window shut and stormed downstairs. The vampire was huddled on the bottom of the steps. Bobby swung the door wide. “Well, come on!”

“What are you doing?”

“I'm invitin' you in. What the hell you think I'm doin'? Come one, come on, it's cold as a witch's left teat out there!”

The vampire hesitated, and then sidled into the priest's living room. 

“You're not gonna burst into flame, boy,” said Bobby, who was bustling around, turning on lights. “Now, why are you rousting me before the chickens?”

Benny must have realized he wouldn't be cursed, so he relaxed slightly. “I'm defecting from the riot squad here. Got a call from a demon.”

“Yeah, a lot of that going on these days. You drink coffee?”

“Prefer pig's blood, but I wouldn't mind a coffee,” said Benny.

“Only blood I have around here is from our Lord and Savior I'm afraid,” said Bobby, who was now fussing in the kitchen. “So what did this demon have to say?”

Benny went to lean against the kitchen counter, still gazing around curiously. “Said her name was Cecily. One of Crowley's assistants. Said that Castiel had taken off after Sam Winchester, and then her boss and my partner lit off to chat with someone called Perun?”

“Perun? Are they nuts?” Bobby paused in spooning ground coffee into the percolator.

“Most likely. Anyhow, they left instructions to get a move on with the ritual to banish Marzanna's ass.”

“The ritual you boys are supposed to be preventing,” said Bobby.

“I said I defected. We need you and Rabbi Singer to help out. That is, if you're willin'?”

“We also need _people_ ,” said Bobby. He had set the percolator on a burner and stared at it. “Lemme get some caffeine in my veins, and I'll think on it.”

 

Ozone. Dean remembered the smell. It was the same scent that lingered in the air at the angel's headquarters after the massacre.

Perun hadn't been terribly hard to find: there was a rather obvious storm cloud hovering over the park that covered the hill the center of town. 

He dodged as yet another stone came flying over their heads. That was another thing he remembered from the massacre. They hadn't even made it to Perun's presence, but had been pinned down on one of the long stone staircases that led up to where he was evidently camped. There had been no warning, just Inias tackling Dean as the arrows suddenly started flying.

“C'mon guys!” said Dean. “We've got an angel and a demon on the team. Can't we do anything?”

Crowley, for whatever reason, had raised an umbrella up over his head. “Sorry, mate. Thunder gods.”

As thunder crashed, Inias, who had been looking more and more impatient, peered once more up the stairs, and into the dense fog that hovered on top of the hill. This place was usually a popular gathering spot, but it was completely deserted today. “I must go and try,” he told Dean.

“Good. Another self-sacrificing angel,” snarked Crowley. “Just what we need.”

“I will lay down my weapons. Perhaps he will respond to my entreaties,” said Inias. Another boulder flew overhead, falling with a crash in back of them. “Or, perhaps not.”

“Inias, this dude managed to deep-six a whole pack of your brothers!” Dean warned.

Inias gave him an odd look. “Zachariah was my superior for many years. I know all too well his quirks. He could be … unpleasant.”

“Guy was an asshole.”

“Yes. An asshole.” Inias's face suddenly lit up, as if he were pleased at himself for swearing. “Perhaps Perun will respond to more … diplomatic greetings?” He drew his angel sword. Crowley gave it a curious look as Inias handed it over to Dean. And then, with a deep breath, he stood up and marched out to the middle of the stairs where they'd been crouching.

Inias held up his hands. “Perun. I am unarmed. We wish only to speak to you.”

Crowley glanced over at Dean. “If I were a betting man,” he whispered, “I'd wager our feathery friend is going to be dispatched with extreme prejudice.”

There was silence. 

And then thunder crashed. Dean ducked, covering his head. 

Someone up above was laughing.

Dean looked up. Inias, against all odds, was still standing in the middle of the stairs. And there was now a man standing up above, just visible through the fog. 

“How I enjoy jesting with angels,” boomed the man. 

Steeling himself, Dean rose and ventured out to stand beside Inias, who he noticed was trembling quite badly. “Hey,” shouted Dean. “Are you Perun?”

“What if I am?” laughed the god. He descended a few steps. He was tall, with a big smile and long blond hair. 

“I'm Officer Dean Winchester, of the Tajemny Corps. This is the angel, Inias, and that's Mr. Crowley over hiding in the bushes.” Crowley peered up at Perun under his ridiculous umbrella.

“I might rather ask, why does a human venture here accompanied by an angel and a demon?”

“Like my friend said, we just wanna talk,” Dean told him.

“Doesn't your 'friend' wish revenge for his brethren I slew? It would be the honorable thing.” Perun crossed his meaty arms.

Inias was still shaking, but managed to say, “My brethren have committed grave crimes against the earth.”

“That is an understatement, angel.”

“We're trying to fix it,” said Dean. “Right now. My brother is gonna lead the ritual to banish Marzanna.”

“You can never banish Marzanna,” laughed Perun, who sat down on the steps. 

“You a friend of hers?” Dean asked.

Perun peered skyward. “More like.... What is the human word? A colleague. Yes, I am a colleague. I am not much a friend to the angels, nor they to me,” he continued, gesturing towards Inias. “I am rather fond of humans. For many centuries, I counted men among my acolytes.” He rubbed his beard. “But 'tis clear, the world is out of balance.”

“Like I said, we're trying to fix it. We want to make Marzanna go south for the winter. Or whatever she likes,” Dean continued. Crowley was now standing at his side, the umbrella folded back into a cane. But as the demon was still silent, Dean decided to plow onward. At least the god was listening instead of throwing rocks and thunderbolts their way. “But a group of angels are holding little brother. And maybe my friend. Who's an angel, by the way.”

“You are an unusual man, Dean Winchester,” said Perun.

Dean shrugged. 

“You said the angels were holding your younger brother?” asked Perun. 

It seemed an odd question, but Dean answered anyway. “Yeah. My dumb little brother.”

“Younger siblings do have a knack for getting into sticky situations, don't they?”

Dean glanced at Inias, who shrugged. “Our parents aren't alive anymore,” Dean explained, “so I try to watch out for him.”

Perun scratched his beard. And then he whistled. “Veles!”

Now there was another man standing beside him on the stairs. This one was dark and slim. 

“Dean Winchester, this is my own dear younger brother, Veles. If you are bold, he will take you to find your brother.”

“Angel headquarters?” asked Inias. “We're heavily warded. Even I cannot venture in.”

Perun chortled. “Veles has his ways. Don't you?”

Veles’s eyes narrowed. His pupils constricted from the sides, like a cat. Dean shuddered, but stepped forward. “I'll go.” He felt Crowley's hand on his arm.

“We need to chat,” said Crowley, who pulled Dean down to huddle with him and Inias.

“I'm gonna go,” Dean whispered. He saw something flash in Crowley's hand.

“This is an angel blade,” Crowley confided, proffering it to Dean.

“How did you get one of our swords?” Inias asked.

Crowley arched an eyebrows. “King of the Crossroads, remember?” Inias didn't look convinced, but Dean grabbed the sword and tucked it into his jacket, and then he headed upstairs.

Veles smiled at Dean. And flicked his forked tongue. 

 

Sam scribbled runes in the dust of the floor. Though he tried not to show it, he was worried. Cas had been drifting in and out of consciousness in the cell next to him. He had written out some marks that (he hoped) would muffle their conversations, and now he was working on a spell to hear through walls. He had always possessed a rather superior eidetic memory, and he was hoping it had served him well from flipping through some of the books at Crowley's house. 

He finished a cross-stroke, and then casually leaned his head back against the wall to listen. “...organizing a protest,” droned a female voice. 

“We must put it down,” came another female voice.

“Naomi,” came yet another voice. “We have reason to believe the true motive for this gathering is intended to work magic against the Marzanna.”

“Yes.” It was Naomi's voice again, clear as if it had been in the same room. “Why do you bring that up?”

There was a pause. Sam imagined worried angels looking at one another. “Would it not be in our interest, Commander....”

“We will not tolerate dissent. We _must_ not tolerate it. Use of magic by any non-angelic being is strictly illegal.”

A male voice Sam hadn’t heard before: “The Tajemny frequently utilize-“

“I have shut down the Tajemny Corps.”

Another pause followed. Sam’s mind raced. Tajemny shut down? What about Dean? Was he all right?

“Marzanna will fall,” Naomi continued. “We will see to it. But we must not let dissent flourish. Is this understood?”

Sam strained to hear the murmured assent. 

“Ion. Esper. You will go put down this demonstration. You are authorized to use any means necessary.”

There were a couple of male voices saying yes, and then a faint sound, like birds of prey in flight.

“Now, on the matter of the boy….” It was the first female voice Sam had heard. 

“His fate is sealed,” said Naomi, and Sam shivered. “It appears Castiel requires an additional lesson regarding his continued dereliction of duty.”

A new voice. “And Sam Winchester is to be … the lesson?”

“A necessary sacrifice,” said Naomi.

Sam flinched: a hand was suddenly gripping his arm.

Castiel had somehow crawled over and stuck his hand through the bars between them. “They will not harm you, Sam,” Cas whispered, his voice trembling, his eyes wide. “This is my vow. No harm will come to you. Not here. Not ever.”

Sam nodded, but his heart was sinking.

 

“Sorry for wakin’ ya all up on a Sunday,” said Father Singer. There was scattered laughter inside the church.

Unlike a lot of recent Sunday mornings, the place was packed to the rafters. Aside from Father Singer’s flock, there was a contingent from the Jewish Quarter, led by Rabbi Turner, who was seated in the front row. And a few of their other acquaintances had crowded in as well, like the Methodist minister and his followers, the imam from the mosque down the street and his followers, and some folks from the Buddhist temple.

And then there was a whole contingent led by Jessica Moore. They mostly stood a little awkwardly in the back or along the walls, obviously unused to being inside a house of worship. Father Singer didn’t much care, and he didn’t suppose God cared either – not if the big guy was worth a shit. Father Singer nodded to Jess, and then grabbed the flask he had underneath the podium for a little sip. He wondered how everybody was going to react. Well, at least he would wake them up.

“I’ve got a guest speaker for you here today. I hope you’ll give him your attention – I sure did. Please welcome Officer Benjamin Lafitte of the Tajemny Corps.”

At the mention of his name, Benny came into the light. The guy looked nervous as hell. Did vampires sweat? Well, if not, he was sure making a show of it.

“That’s a vampire!” yelled one of Bobby’s folks. 

Bobby stepped back to the microphone. “He sure as hell is,” he said.

“How the hell did it get in here?”

“I invited him.” There was a lot of muttering from the crowd. “Now shut the hell up and listen.”

Benny nodded at Bobby, and then tapped the microphone. He looked around, and then doffed his cap. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m Officer Lafitte. For fifteen years now, up until yesterday, I was a member of the Tajemny Corps. I’ve, uh, recently resigned my post. I think there’s something more important, that, if you'll let me, I'd like to tell you about.”


	9. Chapter 9

“So, uh,” said Dean conversationally, “You’re a giant snake.”

Veles flicked his tongue. He did that a lot. They were currently underground. Dean wasn’t quite sure where, exactly, because they were freaking underground. He assumed they were wending their way to where the angels were holding his brother and Cas, but he knew enough to know Veles was a trickster as well as a serpent god, so maybe the dude was leading him to some hidden torture dungeon, or a buried treasure, or maybe even China? 

Veles had turned around and began to burrow again. Dean sighed and followed along. It had occurred to him that this guy was the kind of thing that, up until a few days ago, he would have been hunting. He wondered what Benny was up to. Dean hoped his partner hadn’t gone along with Henricksen’s orders to join the riot police, but who knew? And he was miles away from a cell phone signal. Now he was wishing he had grabbed Crowley or Inias to come along with him. They had promised to help out in conducting the ritual to counter Marzanna, but seriously, what good was the word of a demon? Or even an angel, for that matter? Inias seemed like a good guy, but that was also something that tended to get you killed.

Dean stopped, as he had just bumped into Veles’s twitching tail. The god slithered around, and then morphed back into its human mode, though still the forked tongue flicked. 

“Uh, hey, excuse me,” said Dean. Veles inclined his head, and Dean peered at a low light that was glowing in the tunnel. He walked ahead. There was now a hole in the bottom of the tunnel, just a bit smaller in radius than a manhole. Dean crouched down and peered through. It looked like they had just come up over some kind of store room. He stilled his breathing, and thought he heard, dimly, the sounds of footsteps, and what might be soft voices. “So is this-?” he started to ask.

But now he was all alone in the tunnel.

 

It looked like a scarecrow, though it was also bedecked with colorful ribbons. Jess, who was a physician in training, was also no slouch at stitchery as it turned out. It seemed like it was best that the figure at least somewhat resembled a female form. Some people were now tugging a wig onto their effigy, and applying lipstick before they cast her on top of the pyre they had fashioned right in the middle of the street.

Bobby shot a nervous glance up and down the square. The sky was slate grey: one of those days where it looked like it had been overcast forever, and would remain so until kingdom come. “Is this gonna be enough people?” he asked Rufus.

“I’ll be damned if I know,” sighed Rufus, who had been helping himself to Bobby’s flask that whole morning.

“You’ll be damned regardless,” snapped Bobby, who snatched back the flask to get a sip for himself. They had chosen an assembly area in one of the older parts of the city, and one that had, as yet, escaped the construction boom that had hit the city along with the oil money. This had a twofold advantage: a low profile as far as the local cops were concerned, and this old ground probably contained as much residual old magic as anywhere in the city. And they needed all the help they could get.

The clouds parted briefly, and the crowd quieted. Bobby glanced at the ground as the grey shadows of two great winged creatures passed over him. “This can’t be good.”

There was a soft sound, like the rustling of feathers, and then two men were standing in the midst of the gathering. They were dressed in identical suits, and wore reflective sunglasses. 

“We’re here to put an end to this demonstration,” said the taller one. “Please, return to your homes now, and no harm will come to you. Persist in your anti-governmental activity, however, and there will be consequences.”

“Ain’t a demonstration,” Bobby told them. “And how can you say no harm will come to them when we’ve got a witch loose?”

“The situation in question will be dealt with,” said the taller angel.

“Situation?” said Jess, who was putting her lipstick back in her purse. “ _Situation_? I’ve been working double shifts at the hospital for a week! We’ve got a plague on our hands!”

The angel stared down his nose at Jess. “The supernatural phenomenon has nothing to do with this illness you speak of.”

“Marzanna is the goddess of plagues, you asshole!” said Rufus.

“Stand down,” warned the shorter angel, who looked around nervously, as the crowd made absolutely no move to disperse.

“They killed my mother’s workers!” yelled a slim, blond woman in the crowd. “Out at Harvelle’s. You can’t tell me that wasn’t supernatural.”

“It’s true!” said an older woman standing nearby. “We were working with you: with the angels. And you couldn’t protect us.”

“You can’t even protect yourselves!” yelled the younger woman.

“You need to tell your people to disperse, Father,” the tall angel warned Bobby.

“Or else?” asked Bobby.

“There will be consequences.”

“Fuck your consequences,” said Rufus.

Both of the angels now drew swords. Some in the crowd nervously edged back as the angels began to exude an eerie blue color.

“Powering up,” Bobby whispered to Rufus, who grabbed back the flask.

“We’re fucked,” sighed Rufus.

And then, the short angel held out a hand, and looked upwards. Something was drifting down from above: snowflakes. And then more, and still more.

But it was only snowing on the two angels. 

And then the soft snowfall became heavier and heavier. “What’s going on?” asked the tall angel.

Two more angels were in the square now. “Ion. Esper. You’ve met Muriel, haven’t you?” asked Inias. Muriel’s eyes were glowing a bright blue, and she had her hand pointed at Ion and Esper. “She has a talent for weather manipulation.”

“Inias, we’ll bring you up on charges!” shouted Ion. Holding their swords, and walking against what was now a considerable head wind, he and Esper advanced on the other two angels.

“That’s far enough!” yelled another person. “Right there!” Ion and Esper turned, just as the demon, Cecily, flicked a hand at them. She sent out a spark, and the ground around them lit up. They were surrounded by a ring of fire.

“Holy oil,” Cecily explained. “If you don’t wanna end up angel-kebabs, you need to stand still.”

“You will burn, demon,” Ion told her.

Cecily shrugged. “I've got a friend who's an ice machine,” she said, hitching her thumb at Muriel.

“Do we have enough people now?” Jess asked Bobby and Rufus. 

“We don't rightly know,” Bobby confessed.

“Well, you better figure it out,” she told them. She pointed down the street.

The riot police had arrived.

 

Sam closed his eyes and waited to die.

He cracked open one eye and stared across the room. They had been yanked out of their cells, he and Cas, and hustled to some bigger room where Naomi and a few other angels were gathered, he guessed, to witness his demise. 

The trouble seemed to be that Cas was in a bad way. They had stood him up in the center of the room, while an angel gripped Sam by the hair (which did not please Sam, although Dean might have laughed) and put one of those angel blades to his throat.

Cas had promptly collapsed to the floor, and now there was a big fuss at trying to bring him back to consciousness. The wound in his side looked bad. It was bleeding, and the edges were all black. But at one point, when one of the angels was running off to get an herb or something like that, Cas had opened his eyes, looked at Sam, and winked. He was playacting to delay them. But to what end, Sam had no idea. 

“You're a lawyer,” he thought to himself. “ _Negotiate_!” He cleared his throat, which caused the angel who was holding him to back off with the sword. “Excuse me,” he said.

Naomi's head whipped around to face him. “You are not allowed to speak here, demon.”

“Um, not demon. Human. And since I'm about to be executed, shouldn't I at least get some last words?”

“You're not being executed. This isn't your trial. This is strictly angelic business.”

“I assume this guy is gonna stick this pointy thing into my neck. Which will result in my dying,” said Sam.

“You have been receiving tutelage from the demon, Crowley, have you not?” asked Naomi.

“Tutelage?” asked Sam. He glanced out on the floor in front of him. Cas, who was stretched out on the floor feigning unconsciousness, curled his hand into a gesture that resembled thumbs up. “I've been studying some arcane wisdom,” Sam ventured. Cas seemed to want him to stall, but he wasn't sure why. Maybe the angel was waiting for an opening?

“This knowledge is forbidden.”

Sam noticed the guy guarding him had eased off. It was nice to have that blade away from his neck. And a couple of the other angels were watching him intently. Maybe they weren't completely sure about Naomi's leadership? “I thought the rule was that humans aren't supposed to practice magic?”

“That is the rule,” said a woman. Sam recognized the voice – it was the one who had been talking to Naomi when he was listening in. 

“So, I was conducting research. Unofficially, yes. But to help my brother. Who's a member of the Tajemny. They're authorized to use magic and spells in the interdiction of supernatural entities, aren't they?”

“We are going to put an end to this practice,” stated Naomi.

“Isn't that _ex post facto_ , though? Punishing me for something that hasn't yet been codified?”

“That would make sense,” said the lady bureaucrat angel.

“You are not authorized to use magic, and furthermore, you were consorting with a known demon,” Naomi insisted.

“But that's hearsay,” interjected the bureaucrat. Sam tried not to grin.

Naomi was now addressing her angels. “As I've stated before, Sam Winchester isn't the one on trial here.”

There was a crash, and everyone turned to stare. Part of the ceiling had just collapsed, and amid the bits of tile and mortar, a dusty figure arose.

“Boy, you should get that fixed!” said Dean, pointing upwards. “You could get sued!”

 

“You need to disperse immediately,” said Lt. Henricksen, speaking to the crowd that was still massed around the Marzanna effigy in the town square. He stood in front of a squad of several dozen men dressed in riot gear, though he had pulled up his visor to chat with Bobby and Rufus. 

“You're Lt. Henricksen, right?” asked Bobby.

“And you must be Father Singer,” sighed Henricksen, looking at Bobby's roman collar. “Look, I don't want any trouble. If you just disperse, we can solve this peaceably.”

“We're not looking for peace, Lieutenant,” said Rufus. 

“Then what are you trying to do?” He pointed over to Ion and Esper. “And why are those angels in the middle of a holy oil circle?”

“They confined us here!” Ion yelled. “We're being held against our will.”

“They're basically assholes,” said Rufus.

“Eh,” said Henricksen, who shrugged as Ion and Esper shouted. “Angels. OK, I'll give you that.”

“We're trying to banish a witch,” Bobby told him. He pointed to the Marzanna effigy atop the pyre. “This here is a ritual.”

“We are aware of that situation. It will be taken care of,” Henricksen protested.

“Lieutenant, you seem like a smart fellow,” said Bobby. “This is more than a 'situation.' We're dealing with nasty stuff here. Old stuff. And we're pretty sure the angels are behind this, what with their tendency to dig up oil fields no matter what might be living there. That's why the angels ain't so happy about folks finding out. But this is critical now. There's old gods awakening, and we've got an epidemic on our hands.”

Henricksen lowered his voice. “I understand. Believe me. But Bobby, you don't want to tangle with the angels, especially this new gang who just came in. Please let us do our job....” Henricksen trailed off, as another squadron of riot police suddenly marched into the square. “Oh, what the hell are you doing here?” he asked. “This situation is under control.”

A large policeman came up to Henricksen. He pulled up his visor. “Sorry,” said Benny. “I was the one who called ya.” He looked over at Bobby. “We got enough people now, Padre?” he asked.

“I think so. Fire in the hole!” he shouted to Cecily, who happily set the Marzanna effigy alight.

“Sorry for the deception, Lieutenant,” Bobby told Henricksen. “We needed to make sure we had a quorum of magic users.”

 

Dean managed to avoid being caught by the angels for a surprisingly long time. He was aided by his brother, who stomped on his angelic guard's instep and managed to wriggle away as well for a time. 

Dean led them on a merry chase, taking advantage of the fact that these angels were probably bureaucrats, not warriors. He pushed one into another, tripped a third, and grabbed another by the tie. But then Sam was tackled again, and Dean suddenly made a run for the door. Naomi, who was clearly not having a good day, stuck out her hand, and Dean was blasted across the room by her angel magic. 

“I will not tolerate this!” Naomi shouted.

Dean picked himself up and shook his head, but as an angel went to grab him, he suddenly tossed the angel blade he was holding across the room. Cas, who had been “unconscious” only a moment earlier, snatched it with one hand and then leapt towards the wall, where he brought the blade down through some sigils etched there. The magical blade gouged through the wall, and Castiel ended up on his knees, panting.

There was dead silence in the room. “The warding,” said one of the angels. “He's damaged the warding.”

“Castiel, what have you done?” asked Naomi.

The ground began to shake. There were some unearthly noises, like the howls of wolves, piercing the night. “Sounds like you've got a visitor, Naomi,” said Dean, who despite being in an angel headlock, was grinning ear to ear.

A bright light flashed in the middle of the room. The angels edged back, but Naomi stood her ground. “Don't be frightened,” she shouted. “We are stronger than any earth creature.”

“Then why were you warded?” Dean taunted. 

“Shut up!” yelled Naomi, but at that moment, the light solidified into the form of an old woman. Dean did a double-take – it looked exactly like the woman from Cas's memory. 

“You took my sister,” the witch hissed at Naomi.

“Begone, demon!” said Naomi, who tried the same zapping trick she's used on Dean. It had absolutely no effect on Marzanna.

“You will die,” stated Marzanna. But then she began to light up from within, as if she were on fire. She stopped and stared at her own old hands.

“The effigy,” said Dean.

“You went through with it?” Sam asked him.

“Evidently,” said Dean. 

“Dude, talk about bad timing,” said Sam.

Dean had to agree. Marzanna flared up until it seemed she had become flame. She was going to turn to ash before she had her revenge. 

“Begone, witch!” shouted Naomi. It was the wrong thing to say. The fire that consumed the witch suddenly flared. It gave off a pair of smaller fires, which resembled wolves. The fire wolves howled, and then charged around on either side of Naomi. She turned to face them, and they pushed towards her, now backing her towards Marzanna. Just as the flames consumed her, Marzanna fell upon Naomi, who screamed. In an instant, they were both enveloped in fire. 

There was a flash of brilliant light, and Dean shielded his eyes. When he looked up, Naomi and Marzanna were both gone. There was a marking of black as that resembled wings spread across the floor.

“Are we alive?” asked Sam, blinking in the darkness.

There was a rumbling overhead. Sam looked upwards.

“Cas!” yelled Dean. He threw off his angelic captor and went running across the room.

 

While the group in the town square watched, the Marzanna effigy had suddenly flared up, and now the entire bonfire had been quickly reduced to a few ashes.

The riot police had stood by since, as Lt. Henricksen stated, this was really a job for the city firemen. Oddly enough, nobody seemed too enthusiastic about calling the fire department to the scene.

“What now?” Henricksen asked Bobby.

“We gotta get these ashes to the river as fast as possible.”

There was a crashing noise, coming up the street. Everyone watched in amazement as an entire house, up on chicken legs, came tromping down the street. The crowd parted, and the house set itself down in the middle of the square.

“Don't worry,” Cecily told everyone. “It's just the boss, showing off again.”

Several disembodied hands popped out of the house at the same time Crowley stepped out. “I've stopped to pick up some passengers,” he announced. Sam and Dean came out, supporting Castiel between them. Jess ran over to put an arm around Sam.

“I need to escort some ashes,” said Crowley. The gloved hands were already using little whisk brooms to efficiently scoop MarzanMarzanna's ashes up into a porcelain jar. They popped a cap on the jar and carried it inside.

“We could have sent for a police car,” grumbled Henricksen.

“Just trying to be a responsible citizen,” Crowley told the policeman. He tipped down his sunglasses. “Cecily? Are you coming?”

“It's been real,” called Cecily, who sashayed into the house. 

“You're not comin' back, are you?” Bobby asked Crowley, who had paused in the doorway.

“I'll probably relocate, at least temporarily. I don't think their type will be too pleased to see me after this incident,” Crowley added, pointing to Ion and Esper, who were still unhappily standing in the middle of the ring of fire.

 

They stood watching Crowley's house walk away, Dean not quite believing what he was seeing. Cas moaned, and Dean helped him down to sit on a park bench. “You doin' OK, buddy?” Dean asked.

“I'm fine,” Cas stubbornly insisted.

“No you're not. We need to let Jess take a look at you.”

Cas huffed, but as if by magic, Jessica was there with a medical bag. “Let's see that side,” she urged.

“It's a magical wound,” Cas grunted.

Jess rolled her eyes. “Yeah. As if I haven't seen one of those before in this city!”

Sam tapped his brother's shoulder. Dean turned to see Jess had been to work on his brother as well, as the guy now had some bandages and was even wearing a sling. “I told her it's a sprain, but the boss says I need to get X-rays,” he sighed.

“You're next, Dean!” Jess told him as she tutted over Cas's wound.

Sam pulled Dean away, out of earshot. “When I was with Crowley, I was actually working on a spell,” said Sam. 

“Yeah, I know,” said Dean.

“But it wasn't for the Marzanna.”

“What was it for then?” asked Dean.

Sam glanced over at Cas. “I don't wanna say anything in front of him, because I don't wanna get his hopes up.” Dean was suddenly gripping his sore arm. “Ow!”

“Sorry. Cas?”

“It's an old spell. And a lot of weird-ass ingredients. But I had Bobby and Rufus look it over, and they think it's worth a shot.”

Dean gazed over to where Jess was keeping up a line of chatter while she rubbed something on Cas's side. 

“We'll do it,” said Dean. “We've got to try.”

 

“You sure you want me to take off?” asked Benny.

“Sam wasn't so certain about the effects of this spell,” Dean told him as he helped Cas out of Benny's truck. “I'd put some distance between us and yourself.”

In the days after Marzanna was burnt in effigy, the city had not exactly gotten back to normal. Truth be told, the city was never normal, not with all the magical beings about. But the sick people had started to recover, and Dean and Benny (who were reinstated to the Tajemny without any questions asked) found themselves quickly back to their normal load of casework.

Sam and Jess had moved into Cas's building, on the floor just below Cas's apartment. This was after Dean called in a few favors and got the elevator working. He couldn't countenance his future nephew (or niece, as Jess continued to insist) be forced to climb those stairs. And it meant that Jess could look in on Cas, who out and out refused to go to a hospital. When Naomi's people had all departed back to the south, the local angels looked on Cas to lead them, which he did, to the best of his ability. He worked, from his home, with his allies to turn control of the city back to its human residents. Surprisingly, some humans, as well as some angels, weren't terribly keen on this idea. The work put an extra stress on Cas. Meanwhile, his friends toiled around the clock to finish preparation for Sam's supposed cure.

“You don't need to do this, Dean,” Cas whispered as he slumped into Dean’s arms on the deserted hillside.

“Yes, I do. Now shut up.” He nodded to Benny, who tossed him a backpack, and then hopped into his truck and drove away, leaving them all alone in the mountains. “I've got some stuff to prepare. You just hang out.”

Cradling his side, Cas obeyed. He had been in terrible pain the past few days as Dean and Sam and Bobby and Rufus and some angel friends had rushed to gather up the last few arcane ingredients in the spell. One of them was powdered Bukavac horn, which amused Dean. “Sam told me the Bukavac horn would be useful.”

Cas was sitting on the ground, cross-legged. “You know, I remember everything,” he muttered.

“Uh, what?” asked Dean, who pretended to be very absorbed in tossing his ingredients into a bowl.

“We’re not supposed to be able to remember the time before. The time … up there.” He pointed a pale hand towards the sky.

Dean paused. “You remember heaven, Cas?” The angel nodded, as if it were too much of an effort to speak, and Dean went back to measuring out potions and powders. “So, what was it like?”

“So beautiful! But the fighting…. They never stopped fighting.”

“What do you fight about in heaven?” Dean tossed a few herbs in the bowl, and produced a spark. He drew back for a moment.

“His plans. Everyone thinks they’re following His word.”

“God?”

“Yes. But no one knows. Not really.” Cas's voice was soft. He paused between words to catch his breath.

“Why don’t they just ask Him?”

Cas chuckled. “He’s not around.”

“God’s not in heaven? Where the fuck is he?”

“I wish I knew.”

Dean tossed the last few bits and bobs into the bowl, and then crouched down beside Cas. “Now, here’s what happens. I’m gonna light this up, and then say some mumbo-jumbo, and then you’ll be better. All right? You just sit back….”

“If this doesn’t work, Dean….” Cas muttered. His breathing had become labored.

“This will work. Shut up. This will work.”

“I’ve appreciated … our time together.”

“I said shut it, angel,” snapped Dean, who brought out his Zippo lighter. “My brother’s annoying, but he’s never wrong. Now sit back and enjoy the cure.”

A faint smile crossed Cas’s features. Dean lit up the concoction in the bowl, which caused a puff of acrid-smelling smoke and, wrinkling his nose, began to read off a passage in Latin Sam had copied over for him. To his dismay, Cas only sat quietly, listening and holding his injured side. He came to the end of the incantation, and Cas was still sitting placidly.

“Uh, well, sort of a dud-“ Dean began. 

The stuff in the bowl sputtered. There was a glow underneath Cas’s fingers. And then the angel’s eyes began to flash – not blue or black, but a violent red. 

Cas slumped back, and Dean rushed to catch him. The angel opened his mouth, and a rush of acrid crimson smoke curled out while he heaved, his body spasming. The smoke ringed around his head, and then seemed to take form: a running wolf. And then it dissipated, leaving only a sour smell.

Cas was quiet in Dean’s arms, his eyes fluttering shut. He breathed in a ragged breath or two, and then stopped breathing.

“Cas?” said Dean. “Cas? Hey, you OK?”

There was no response, no movement at all. 

Dean pulled the angel all the way into his lap. “Come on, buddy. Cas? Say something.”

Desperately, Dean slid a hand down to feel his chest. There was no heartbeat, no pulse. 

“Dammit. No!” 

Dean pushed Cas off his lap and pounded a fist on his chest: once, twice, then three times. “Cas! Don’t leave me dammit! Cas! Please!” But no matter how many times he pounded, or how many times he howled his friend’s name, there was no life left in the angel’s body, and Dean was left, clutching his lifeless body, tears streaking down his face.

“Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me,” Dean muttered. Wet tears drizzled down his face, and one fell, landing on Cas’s forehead.

As Dean hugged Cas, there was the rumble of thunder in the distance. Without warning, lightning arced across the grey sky.

Dean felt a jerk in his arms. Cas was awake, staring at him with clear blue eyes.

“What the fuck?” whispered Dean. “Cas?”

“I- I think I was in heaven,” Cas muttered. 

“Heaven?”

“But Perun grabbed me. And pulled me back.”

Dean’s body rocked with laughter. “Perun! Thanks, buddy!” he shouted up. He grabbed Cas, and pulled him into a kiss. “So…. So what are you now? Are you an angel? Are you still a demon?”

Cas was touching his face, tracing the tear tracks down his cheeks. “I’m yours,” he said. “Just yours.”


	10. Chapter 10

_Epilogue_

Dean gripped her hand tighter. She looked up at him, large green eyes peeking behind strands of blond hair. 

“Unka Dean, is it true Unka Cas is a _angel_?” she asked. She breathed the last word, as if it stunned her even to voice the thought.

“Yep,” said Dean. “As a matter of fact, he’s _my_ angel.”

“Really?” The eyes grew even bigger. She walked beside him for a time. It was a rare fine day in the city. They were currently traversing the park. Their mission: lobbing chunks of stale bread at the lazy ducks who flapped around in the pond. 

His niece squeezed his hand. “Will I have a angel some day?” she asked.

Dean broke into a grin. “If you’re lucky, you will. But for right now, maybe we could share?”

She nodded. 

Up ahead was a familiar figure, standing at the edge of the pond. He stood motionless, as if he had been standing there forever, and could stay for another forever. 

“Unka Cas!” she hollered, and, wresting free of Dean’s grasp, broke into a run, hurtling herself into Castiel’s waiting arms. He picked her up, securing her on his hip. 

“Hello, Mary,” he said, his voice grave.

“Unka Dean says we can share you!” she told him.

He cast a confused glance at Dean, who only smiled mysteriously. “Wanna feed the ducks?” he asked, holding up a bag of bakery seconds.

“Yeah!” Mary wriggled down and grabbed a handful of bread crumbs, which she hurled into the pond. As Dean found Cas's hand, several birds flapped over. Mary pointed. “Pretty wings!” she shouted. “Like Unka Cas!”

Dean stared at Cas. “Wait a minute, she can't actually see your wings, can she?”

“It's quite possible she can.”

Dean was gawping at Cas. “Seriously?”

Cas smiled mysteriously. It was annoying. “I've always thought your brother was quite extraordinary.”

“But what about me?” moped Dean. “I'm extraordinary!”

Instead of answering, Cas gathered Dean into his arms, and, as a happy little green-eyed girl tossed bread crumbs to ducks, quieted him with a kiss.


End file.
